


Sparks

by MindfulWrath



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Drugs, Eye Trauma, Fluff, Gen, Knives, Rape/Non-con Elements, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-10 21:03:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7006789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MindfulWrath/pseuds/MindfulWrath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of short stories from the Powered 'verse. All canonical, none of which would fit in the main story. Much of it is backstory (since it was requested, and since I know the answers to all your questions).</p><p>Length of stories is highly variable. I wouldn't worry too much about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chocolate Chip

**Author's Note:**

> This conversation takes place during Chapter 16, while Nano is off talking to Lomadia, and was originally written as part of an ask meme. It was requested by an Anonymous samaritan.

"I love you," Rythian said, apropos of nothing.

Lalna's hands went on mixing the dough, although the process had been relegated to the background of their consciousness. They tipped their head to the side, puzzled.

"Yes," they said. "I know. You have said so previously. I love you, too, Rythian."

"I just—felt like I should say that," Rythian said. Lalna saw him shrug in their rear cameras. He was leaning against the counter with his arms folded, his jacket off, his sleeves rolled up. There was flour on his respirator and in his hair. Earlier he had gotten egg all over his hands and grumbled a lot when Lalna scolded him for trying to lick it off his fingers.

"Okay," said Lalna. "I am always happy to hear you say it. Although I am curious as to why you have chosen to do so now. Have I done something particularly lovable? I would like to know so that I can repeat it frequently."

Blood rushed to Rythian's face, casting warm undertones on his brown skin.

"N-no, no, not … not particularly. Other than just being—well, you. That's most of it."

Several of Lalna's internal processes requested joy, and they acquiesced to all of them. They wiggled where they stood, dipping their head.

"That is very easy to do," they said. "I will continue to be me as often as possible."

They continued mixing the dough until it was of an appropriate consistency, then began breaking it into small bits and rolling those bits into spheres, to be placed on the greased cookie sheet. All the bits were within half a gram of each other, even with the density variations provided by the chocolate chips.

"Lalna," Rythian said, markers of caution flagging up all over his voice.

"Yes?"

"If—if I . . . I mean, if there were . . . someone else. That I—had feelings for. Like—maybe, sort of, even romantic feelings. How—um, how would you—feel about that?"

Lalna tipped their head to the side, considering the question—and then, as it became necessary, considering themselves.

"I believe I would be happy for you," they said. "Although I cannot be certain without further information. My models predict that I would not be happy if a person you had romantic feelings for was cruel to you. Then I would not be happy."

"R-really?" Rythian said, standing up straighter. "You'd—you mean it?"

"Yes," said Lalna, "I believe so. You seem surprised. Is my model deficient?"

"No, no no no, no, your model is—is perfect, Lalna," Rythian gushed. "Just—just most people would be—well, jealous."

"I see," said Lalna. "But you love me, so there would be no reason to be jealous."

"I—I mean, there _might_ be, I might—you know, not . . . not be spending as much time with you, and . . . um . . . well, there could be—other things, that—that you and I can't—that I might . . . with somebody else—"

"You mean sex," said Lalna. This was generally a safe bet whenever humans started stammering and talking in circles.

Rythian squeaked, his skin heating up a full degree all over.

"I—well, yes, that's—yes."

Lalna nodded sagely. "I would still be happy for you. I am working on a solution to the problem. I do not mind if you turn elsewhere for assistance in meeting your needs that I cannot provide." They tipped their head to the side. "I would like to meet the other person, however. To ensure that they were of an acceptable quality."

"Oh," said Rythian. "Of—okay, of course. That—might be a little difficult. Um. At—at the moment."

"Rythian?"

"Yes?"

"We are not speaking hypothetically, are we."

"N-no, not exactly."

Lalna nodded. They placed the last cookie on the sheet. They turned to face Rythian, making sure he was paying attention.

"I am very happy for you," they said warmly. "Please tell your other person to hug you for me. And also to kiss you for me. And also—"

 _"_ _Okay I get the point,"_ Rythian blurted, hot all over.

Lalna's whole system flooded with delight, joy, and affection.

"You are very cute," they said, "and I love you."


	2. Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First impressions are not always reliable.
> 
> (People have requested the first meeting between Panda and Nilesy multiple times, so here you go~)

The first time Panda met the masked man, it was well after dark, and the city smelled of rain. His blood sugar had been unassailably high for three days running and it had left him tired, short-tempered, and _twitchy._

"Quite a collection you've got there."

Panda whirled faster than he should have, fast enough to give himself away if anyone was looking—but it was three a.m. and raining and his route home from the 24-hour campus shop was always deserted.

There was a man in a white cat mask and a sharp three-piece suit leaned up against the wall, arms folded, mouth curled into a smile. His eyes glittered, his black hair was slick with rain.

"Collection of _what?"_ Panda snapped. His fingers found the knife in his belt, even as his scars prickled.

The man's smile widened. "You can't guess?" he asked, his voice lilting.

Panda's fists clenched, heat rose to his cheeks.

"Yeah, well you should've seen the other six bastards," he spat.

"Honestly, I wish I had," the man said. "I'll have to make do with imagining."

Panda loosened the dagger in its sheath. There was barely four meters of space between him and the man, he could clear it in less than a second, be at the other end of the alley before the blood even finished its arc out of his slit throat. . . .

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?" he growled.

"Well, I s'pose it would've been a bit cathartic," said the masked man. "Seeing what you did to them. Nothing they didn't deserve, I'm sure."

Panda's skin started crawling. "You're fucking creepy," he said.

The man's head tilted to the side. "Am I?" he asked. "Here I was, thinking I was Nilesy." He shrugged. "But I'm sure you'd know best."

"What are you _doing_ here?"

"Finding you, mostly," said Nilesy. "I've been trying to catch you up for _days_ now."

_"Why?"_

"Because you're Powered and angry," he said. "I like that in people."

Panda snapped, old fear mingling with the new and dissolving the thin threads of his patience. He zipped across the distance between him and Nilesy, pinned him to the wall and pressed the knife to his throat, hard enough that it dimpled his wet skin, that it would slice at the slightest provocation.

"You want to see _how_ fucking angry?" he growled.

"All right, calm down," Nilesy said, amused. "At least take me out to dinner first."

"I'm not _fucking about,"_ Panda said, changing the angle of the blade, just enough to scrape the skin.

Nilesy's eyes went hard and cold, more gems than living things, and when he wrapped his hand around Panda's, his touch made Panda's skin crawl.

"Neither am I," he replied, still grinning.

He pulled on Panda's hand, pressing the knife harder into his own throat, until it drew blood. Panicked, Panda tried to yank his hand back on instinct alone. Nilesy let go, and Panda stumbled back a couple of steps. Nilesy spread his hands, that wild grin still affixed to his face. Blood was sliding down towards his collar, diluted by the rain.

"Not going to kill me, then?" he asked. "Ah well."

"What do you _want?"_ Panda demanded.

"D'you know, I'm really glad you asked. So happens I've got a job opening at the moment, and I was wondering if you'd be interested."

"What kind of fucking _job_ could you _possibly_ have?"

"You know YogLabs?" Nilesy asked. Absently, he wiped the blood from his throat before it reached his white shirt. "We're going to destroy them."

Panda blinked at him. "What, the whole thing?"

"Eventually," he said. He clasped his hands behind his back and rolled up onto his toes. "We're starting with Xephos and his little war machine. You know the one. That horrible robot thing with the face."

 _"That_ thing? You're going up against _that_ thing? Sorry, no, I don't want a job in _suicide."_

"Shame, I find it rewarding."

"Okay, so not only are you fucking creepy, you're fucking _crazy,_ too."

"I'm not the one playing with knives here. Those things're dangerous, you know. Especially in hands like yours. Part of what I like about you."

A flush tried to rise to Panda's cheeks, coming up from somewhere in his chest. He assured himself it was just his blood sugar acting up and that it was a sign he needed to get home as soon as possible. He considered Nilesy for a moment, eyes narrowed and hand still tight on his knife.

"Who's _we?"_ he asked.

"Ah, right, should've mentioned. My partner and I. She's a strigidaen bimorph, in case you were wondering."

Panda frowned. "Aren't owls a little small for bimorphs?"

Nilesy leaned back, blinking. "You _know_ that word?"

"What, like it's hard?"

"No—well, no, but most people—"

"I'm not most people," said Panda.

Nilesy regarded him for a long moment. "That you're not," he said softly.

"So what've _you_ got?" Panda asked, gesturing to Nilesy with the knife.

"Of course, how rude of me. I've got _this."_

He held his hands out and turned them palm-up to the sky, and the rain stopped.

Panda took a step back, eyes flicking up to the sky, where a layer of rain was building up faster than seemed likely. The sheer weight of it must have been incredible, growing every second, but Nilesy was just standing there, grinning, his hands barely shaking. Panda took another step back.

"Still think we don't stand a chance?" he asked.

"You drop all that on me and I'll fucking kill you," Panda said, pointing to the thickening layer of water overhead. He could hear it sheeting off in irregular splashes behind him.

"Don't tempt me," said Nilesy. He gestured elegantly, and the thick sheet of rainwater slid away to the side, as though rolling off a roof. None of it splashed on Panda, and the rain started falling normally again.

"Jesus," Panda muttered to himself.

"So will you consider my offer?" Nilesy asked. "Only if it's a no, I'd rather not waste my time."

Panda chewed his lip.

"I'll think about it," he said.

Nilesy brightened, his whole demeanor shifting in an instant—he suddenly looked younger, lighter, more _real._

"You will?" he said. "That's fantastic!"

"Only _think,"_ said Panda, stuffing the knife back into its sheath. "I'm not committing."

"Yeah, yeah no, of course," said Nilesy, running a hand back over his hair. He cleared his throat and squared his shoulders. "Well, if you decide yes, how about we meet here again. In a week, let's say?"

"All right," said Panda. "A week. Same time, I guess?"

"Probably best," said Nilesy.

They stood in silence for a moment, the rain pattering down around them.

"Do I just leave now, or. . . ?" Panda asked, cocking a thumb over his shoulder.

"I thought you might," said Nilesy. "I could try for a dramatic exit, if you want."

"No, I think I'll just . . . go," he said.

Nilesy waved, smiling.

Panda rolled his eyes and turned his back. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and started off, absolutely certain that he was in no way going to be coming back in a week.

* * *

 

Three months later, he moved in with Nilesy and Lomadia. The rent was cheaper, even if the flat was smaller, and the company was infinitely better. He didn't have to hide his Powers all the time, either, which was a huge plus. Lomadia, he found, was a delightful flatmate, enjoyable to be around and caring without being overbearing. He liked her instantly.

He found himself utterly unable to like Nilesy, and _especially_ when Lomadia was in the room.

It was something about the way he fawned over her, as though she was the most sublime creature on earth, as though he was an accessory to her greatness. It made Panda grind his teeth, and he couldn't quite place why. He also found himself snapping at Nilesy frequently, getting into heated volleys of words that only got more heated with time, because Nilesy just smiled right through them and even seemed to think they were _funny._ Despite this, Panda couldn't manage to keep away from him—Nilesy was like a scab he couldn't quit picking at, no matter that it always left him a little bloody.

Lomadia also seemed to be amused by all of this, but it was in a quiet, reserved sort of way, and it didn't bother Panda half as much.

A month after he moved in, Nilesy had his first little episode.

Panda was up late trying to get his blood sugar under control before he went to bed—for the past week, he'd been having random bouts of feeling like he was low, but every time he tried to fix it, he ended up dangerously high. He had just about gotten himself stable when Nilesy came out of his room.

He hadn't worn the mask in front of Panda in almost a month, but he was wearing it now. There was something _off_ about his bearing—it was like he was wound too tight, but he was drifting over the ground like he weighed next to nothing. A prickling scrambled up Panda's spine like a fleet of needle-footed spiders. He must have made some small noise as he shrank back, because Nilesy turned to look at him.

His eyes were glazed, unfocused, and his smile was uncanny.

"I'm going out for a bit, darling," he said, slurring ever so slightly. "Don't wait up for me."

And he drifted out the door, not even locking it behind him.

Panda stood in the kitchen, clutching the counter behind him for support, his heart pounding in his chest. He found that he was shaking, his head muzzy, his knees weak. Since his meter was right there anyway, he checked his blood sugar.

It was nearly eighty, so whatever was wrong with him, it was probably unrelated. It could, he considered, have just been plain old fear. Lomadia was out on her nightly rounds, and would be for some time, so if Nilesy came back, it would just be Panda, all alone here with him, and no girlfriend to call him off.

Panda shivered and stuck his bleeding finger in his mouth. He was still feeling unsteady, his heart still hammering away at him, so he went and got his computer, lay down on the threadbare couch in the main room and pulled up his favorite cartoon, intending to just watch an episode or two before heading to bed.

Four hours later, Nilesy came back.

Panda heard the door close with a little click, and he was on his feet so fast it sent his computer flying. He just managed to catch it before it slammed into the far wall and shattered. He turned around, clutching it to his chest, his heart in his throat.

Nilesy was standing just inside the door, watching him with his head to one side. His hands were shaking. His suit was wet, although it wasn't raining. His eyes still had that distant, glazed-over look, and a smile was twitching at his lips.

"Thought I told you not to wait up for me," he said, his voice a low purr.

Panda's knees almost went out again. He backed away until he found the wall with his shoulders and could prop himself against it. The impulse to check his blood sugar again leapt up in his mind, incongruous and panicked.

"I . . . I wasn't," he squeaked. "Just—couldn't sleep. Because of the stupid . . . blood sugar. Business. But it's fine now. So I'll just go to bed now and you can—"

Nilesy started forward, the motion sudden and fluid, like he'd been frozen in time and restarted with a snap. Panda pressed himself against the wall, clutching the computer so tightly it turned his knuckles pale. Nilesy stopped just within arm's reach of Panda, the movement again too sudden, leaving him swaying where he stood. Panda's breath stalled out in his chest.

"Yeah?" said Nilesy. His mouth pulled into a wide, almost _hungry_ smile. It made Panda's stomach turn a flip. "Got plans, have you?"

"Are you—drunk?" Panda asked, finding his voice thin and thready.

Nilesy laughed, although it was not a pleasant sound—high and wild and cut off too sharply. He took another step forward and stretched out a hand. His fingertips brushed Panda's cheek, tracing the lines of his scars. His eyes glittered in the dim light, roving over Panda's face.

"Sure," he said, moving closer still. "Let's go with that."

Panda couldn't breathe, couldn't move. Nilesy was so close now that Panda could feel the heat of him. The hand on his cheek was warm, feverish, its touch ever so gentle. He was drowning in Nilesy's eyes, his heart trying to jackhammer through his ribs and leap free, his guts in knots and his knees turned to jelly.

The bay window rattled open, and claws clicked on linoleum.

 _"Nilesy!"_ Lomadia barked. Nilesy looked up sharply, snatching his hand back from Panda's face and straightening up. He grinned, his head tipping over as though it was too heavy for his neck to support.

"Hallo, dear," he said, and Panda could hear a definite slur in his words.

Lomadia held out a hand, and Nilesy drifted to her. She tugged him off to her room, and he followed without resistance or comment. She pushed him inside and looked back over her shoulder.

"All right?" she asked Panda.

"I'm—yeah," he said. His voice was shaking.

"Sorry," said Lomadia. "He doesn't mean it."

And she slipped into her room, closing the door behind her.

Slowly, Panda sank to the floor, still clutching his computer to his chest. He was trembling, his skin was burning. His heart had not slowed its frantic beating.

He raised a hand to his cheek, touching the skin that still tingled with the memory of Nilesy's fingers.

"What the fuck," he whispered to himself.


	3. Parley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requests were made for a bit of Xeph/Strife backstory, so here it is!

Elly slammed the door behind him, as always. Technically, the door slammed on its own, but Elly never caught it, which was practically the same thing. Will grit his teeth and managed _not_ to yell at him, despite the headache clawing at the inside of his forehead. He had a midterm in the morning and couldn't afford the fallout from a fight.

Afterwards, he promised himself. He'd need a good unwinding then anyway.

"William," Elly called from the kitchen. Will sighed and set his pencil down on the notes spread across the coffee table in the main room. It was the only place with enough horizontal space for him to spread out, save the floor, and he refused to lie on the floor like some starry-eyed undergrad when he had a business to run.

"What?" he snapped. If Elly had already resorted to _William,_ he was clearly itching for a fight, and there was no point trying to humor him.

"What've you done with my teacup?" Elly asked, in that sickly-sweet way of his that never failed to make Will's teeth ache.

"It's in the dishwasher," Will said.

"It doesn't _go_ in the dishwasher," Elly said. "You haven't run it yet, have you?"

"Yeah, I have."

He could almost hear Elly's teeth grinding. It was a most satisfying sound.

"And _why,_ praytell, have you run my teacup through the dishwasher, where, inevitably, it will have broken?"

"You don't want me washing your dishes for you, don't leave 'em sitting in the sink for a week, hey?" said Will. He picked his pencil back up and stuck it between his teeth.

"Three days," Elly snapped.

"Close enough," said Will, shrugging.

"No, William, it is _not_ 'close enough,' it's the second teacup of mine you've broken thus far."

"Stop buying breakable teacups," Will said, keeping his eyes on his notes.

_Modulus of elasticity, E, equals sigma times F-two dot F-one times L-naught, divided by—_

"William," Elly said again, standing at the end of the table. His voice was that fragile porcelain calm, threatening to snap at any moment. Will shifted where he sat, spreading his knees a little farther apart.

"Yeah, don't know if you'd noticed, Elly, but I'm kinda in the middle of something. So if you wouldn't mind fucking off, that'd be great."

"William, I am quite tempted to slam your face into those stupidly tiny notes of yours."

"Be my guest," said Will. "Then I win."

"No," said Elly. Will looked up at him, baffled by the coldness in his voice. He noticed the difference immediately, glittering and winking like a tiny star.

"What the hell is on your finger?" he demanded, pointing at the third digit of Elly's left hand.

Elly gave him one of his tight little smiles and held up his hand, displaying the offending item.

"It's an engagement ring," he said. "One would have presumed you were intelligent enough to know that without asking."

"I just couldn't believe anybody would ever agree to marry _you,"_ Will retorted. "What, you got blackmail on somebody or something?"

"Plenty," Elly said, showing teeth. Will leaned back and draped an arm over the back of the couch. "But not in her case."

 _"Her?"_ Will echoed, his eyebrows shooting up. "Well, _well,_ Elly, aren't you just full of surprises."

"More than you could possibly imagine," said Elly. Will snorted.

"Hey, why don'tcha try being a little _more_ full of yourself," he said. "Great, good talk, wish you all the best. Are you gonna leave now? Because I got a midterm to study for and uh, you're not helping."

"It has to stop, Will," Elly said quietly.

Will turned his eyes back to his notes. "Yeah, whatever," he said. Something had opened up in his chest, surprisingly full of feeling, and he didn't like it, didn't want Elly seeing it.

"Not _whatever,"_ Elly snapped. "It ends. I'm not moving out until January, and in the meantime, the fighting must stop. And all of the—ancillary activities, besides."

"Yeah, okay, I _got_ it," Will said. "Go call your girlfriend, or whatever."

"You're buying me a new teacup," Elly said.

"You haven't even looked to see if it's broken."

"I haven't got to. It's quite obvious that it must be."

"Yeah, well, maybe I forgot to run the dishwasher or something. Why don't you go check and quit bothering me, hey?"

Elly moved away, and Will kept his jaw clenched, unseeing eyes staring at his notes.

"Ah!" Elly said mildly. "It appears you must have forgotten to run the dishwasher after all. Very well, I shall take my teacup and leave you to your studying."

"How long?" Will asked, as Elly was exiting the kitchen.

"Pardon?" said Elly, pausing.

"How long've you been dating this girl. 'Cause it must've been a while, if you're marrying her."

"A year and a half," said Elly.

Will snorted. "Jesus, Elly, you're a bastard."

"You were always surplus, William," Elly said, his voice gone chilly. "A good bit of fun, but hardly necessary."

The pencil snapped in Will's hand.

"And you think you _weren't?"_ he growled.

Elly considered a moment.

"No," he said. "I imagine you shall miss me quite terribly."

"There's six billion people on earth. I'm sure I can find another smug prick to hatefuck for stress relief."

Elly laughed. It was an uncommon sound, all the moreso for being sincere.

"Oh, _heavens,_ Will," he said, breathy and grinning. "You _are_ going to miss me."

"Someday, Elly, I'm going to burn every fucking thing you love," Will said. "Right down to your pretty little trophy bitch."

The temperature of the room dropped eighteen degrees. It suddenly got very quiet. All the hairs stood up on the back of Will's neck.

"Come anywhere near me or mine," Elly said quietly, "and I will come for you with such wrath that your whole _country_ will disavow you."

Will looked up at him and grinned. His teeth were like razors in his mouth, his heart pounding.

"Jeez, Elly," he said. "Thought we were done coming for each other. Unless you want one last hurrah before you get hitched to your precious breeder. Hey, you think your kids'll be freaks, too?"

The spark that went off in Elly's eyes was like a striker applied to gas-soaked wood. His lips peeled back in a snarl and he went for Will, bowling him off the couch and pinning him to the floor, striking him in the face. Will reached up and grabbed Elly's throat with both hands, digging his thumbs into the delicate trachea even as blood poured out of his nose. Elly choked and gagged and reeled back, swatting at Will's arms. Will let him go, then drove a fist into his stomach. Elly came down hard, crushing Will's throat under his forearm, his face white with rage, his diamond eyes full of fire. Will choked and bucked his hips, trying to throw Elly off, digging fingernails into his biceps, grabbing him by the hair and yanking as hard as he could.

"Say it again," Elly hissed, while Will's head filled up with blood and his lungs burned, pain lancing through his whole neck from the weight of Elly's arm. "Fucking say it again, William."

 _"Freak,"_ Will choked, hardly any air in the word, a bare croak of a syllable. Elly grabbed him by the ears, releasing the pressure on his throat, just to slam his head into the floor.

 _"I—am—not—a—freak!"_ Elly snarled, bashing Will's head against the floor with every word. _"Don't—you—dare—say—"_

Dazed, full of pain, fear clawing at his chest, Will reached up both hands, tried to dig his thumbs into Elly's eyes, to scratch at his face, anything to make him stop cracking his head against the floor like that, rattling his brains inside his skull. Something found purchase, and Elly yelped, halting his assault long enough to slap Will's hands away. Will pressed his advantage, bucking his hips to throw Elly off. The other man crashed into the table, sending papers flying. Will struggled to get himself upright, blood rolling over his lips and creeping down the back of his neck. His vision was blurred, his throat full of needles, his ears ringing.

Elly staggered to his feet, one hand over his eye. Tears ran down his cheek, tinged with threads of blood.

"What the _fuck,_ Elly?" Will croaked, his voice crushed by his swollen throat.

Elly stared at him for a moment, wild and furious. Suddenly, he _changed—_ the feral energy of him snapped out like a light, the fire in his eyes snuffed out. He straightened up and adjusted his shirt, wiped the blood and tears off his face and looked at the smears they left on the palm of his hand.

"Don't call me that word again, William," he said, his voice clipped and trim, if a bit breathless.

"Or what, you'll try to _kill_ me again? Jesus, Elly, what the hell?"

"Did you think," Elly said softly, still staring at his palm, "that this would be your last hurrah? That you could push me _just_ far enough that I would cave one last time and take you to bed? You miscalculated, William. Severely."

"Or you're just nuts," Will spat. "If you hate it that much, how come you never said anything before?"

"I don't care about the word," Elly said. "It simply does not apply to me."

"Great logic," said Will. "So what, everybody else is a freak and you're—what are they saying the PC term is—a _Powered individual?"_

"No," said Elly. He looked down at Strife, one eye bloodshot and weeping, the other sharp and cold. "I am not one of them, nor have I ever been."

Will's lip curled. "Yeah, you keep on lying to yourself on that one. Lemme know how it works out for you, hey?"

"I am not one of them, William," Elly snapped. Will nearly flinched at the whipcrack of his voice. "They are _creatures._ They are subhuman."

"Yeah?" said Will. "What's that make _you?"_

Elly smiled. It was the kind of expression a calving glacier made before it crushed an expedition team beneath a thousand tons of ice. The redness was already fading from his eye, the clawed ruts in his skin already shallowing, pinkening.

"Why," he said affably, "an improvement."

Will shook his head. He wiped the blood from his face on the back of his hand.

"You're nuts, Elly," he said.

"Ahah," said Elly, and again, that sparking glint was back in his eyes. "How very typical. Blaming all undesirable behavior on mental illness. Honestly, Will, it's simply _lazy."_

"You're so full of it."

"And you're perpetuating the mistreatment of the mentally ill, so really, which one of us is in the right here?"

"Go away, Llewellyn."

"Gladly, William."

Elly turned and stalked out, pausing only to retrieve his teacup from the kitchen counter. Will sat on the floor, long after Elly's door had closed and locked behind him, long after silence had come down again.

Gingerly, he touched the back of his head. His fingers came away sticky.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered.


	4. Angel

_"Liam!"_

Nilesy flinched. That was Gareth's _you are in trouble_ voice. That was the _I am looking for something to break_ voice.

And it was only five-thirty. There were still at least five hours to go before his second shift of the day was over.

His hands, submerged in the lukewarm, scummy dishwater, twitched. The water twitched with them. There was no one else in the dish pit. No one would see.

Gareth stormed in from the kitchen, holding a huge, blackened pot in his hands. Nilesy dropped his eyes and bowed his head and tried to shrink down small enough to hide in the grimy cracks in the floor. For the millionth time, it didn't work.

The blackened pot was shoved into his face. He flinched back and Gareth grabbed him by the hair.

"You call that fuckin' clean?" he demanded. "The fuck're you gettin' paid for?"

There were a few grains of quinoa still stuck to the bottom of the pot. He'd spent nearly half an hour after the breakfast shift trying to scrub this particular pot clean, until the steel wool started peeling the skin back from his fingernails. There were tears gathering in his eyes. He could not speak, could not move, could only stand there and tremble. Gareth shook him.

"I asked you a fuckin' question, boy," he snarled. "You gonna answer me?"

Nilesy gulped. This was one of those situations where he'd screwed himself so thoroughly that there was no getting out of it. If he shook his head, _no I don't call it clean,_ Gareth would take it as _no I'm not going to answer._ A _yes_ would certainly be taken as _yes I call it clean,_ which would probably get his face dunked in the dirty dishwater. Gareth shook him again, hard enough to rattle his teeth, yanking painfully on the hair at the back of his neck.

"You ignorin' me, boy?" he growled, his mouth close enough to Nilesy's face that he could smell the stench of cigarettes on his breath.

He tried—really _tried—_ to shake his head, but his body wouldn't move, wouldn't do _anything._ Gareth's hand tightened in his hair and a grin spread across his narrow, angular face.

"Scared, Liam?" he inquired. "Havin' one of your little freezes, are you? That's all right, all you've got to do is just wash your face a bit, that'll help you calm down, won't it now."

_The water was so close behind him, ready and waiting, and if it leapt to his aid, who could be blamed for what it did? Not Liam, not sweet little passive little stupid little Liam. . . ._

The door to the main restaurant swung open, and quick as lightning Gareth's arm was around Nilesy's shoulders, his posture flipped like a switch from threatening to friendly, all the sharp corners gone from his smile.

Bibi, the bus girl, paused just inside the door.

"Okay," she said, "what's going on here?"

"Just showing our Liam where this pot's got a bit of stuff still in it," Gareth said pleasantly. "Just needs an extra run-through, that's all."

Bibi sighed, shaking her head. "Fine, whatever. Just . . . stop touching him, please, it freezes him up, and then I have to pick up the slack."

"Right, right, yeah, forgot about that," said Gareth, patting Nilesy's shoulder and releasing him. He shoved the pot into Nilesy's arms and swanned out, whistling.

Bibi stacked up the latest load of clean dishes. Nilesy still couldn't make himself move, the phantoms of Gareth's fingers still tangled in his hair.

"Are you okay?" Bibi asked quietly, glancing over at him. "I know he comes on a bit strong, but—he doesn't mean anything by it. I'm sorry he keeps on touching you."

 _Help me,_ he wanted to say, but there was no speaking when he was like this. There was hardly ever any speaking at all, when he was Liam, but especially not now.

Bibi picked up her stack of dishes and started for the kitchen. She paused, looking Nilesy over, and sighed.

"I'll get the next load," she muttered, shaking her head. She hurried off, diligent as ever.

Nilesy began the arduous process of piecing himself back together. At least enough so he could get back to work.

* * *

 

His arms were aching, fingers sore, his shoulders burning as he lugged the last bag of trash out to the bins. It took him three tries to get it in, and he had to hold open the bin with his shoulder to actually manage it, smearing crud on his shirt. He wiped his hands off on his apron, panting slightly in the cold night air. The streetlights were reflecting off of grimy snow, lighting the night up orange and soft. His breath fogged in front of his face, and the sweat down his back was chilling his skin. It was late, perishingly late, and he still had to mop the floors and wipe down the sinks and refill the soap and half a dozen other things—once again, he would likely be the last one going home, save for the manager.

He turned to go back inside and froze solid, rabbit-like, fear squeezing his heart until he was sure it would pop.

Gareth was standing there, arms crossed, grinning at him.

"Havin' a bit of a break, are we?" he inquired, his voice slimy.

Nilesy shook his head, although the movement was arduous. He longed to run away, to at least back up a few steps, but his feet were rooted to the spot.

_Beneath his feet there was water, rushing along through pipes, and if he called it would answer, and who could blame him, who could blame him. . . ._

Gareth took a slow step forward, unfolding his arms.

"So happens _I'm_ havin' a little break myself," he said. He took another step forward. "Thought us might have our little breaks together, eh, Liam? And you won't _tell_ nobody, will you? 'Course not, you don't tell nobody nothin'."

_He could feel the water in Gareth's body, too, pulsing with the beat of his heart, sewn through all his tissues and lying heavy on his bones, and it was sluggish and it was thick with impurities but it was listening, too. . . ._

Gareth grabbed him by the shirt and shoved him back against the wall, knocking the breath from his lungs. He leered into Nilesy's face, the cigarette stench of his breath overwhelming. One hand clamped around Nilesy's throat, and something in him went soft and pliant, smothering the rising fury under soft clouds of mist. His mind started to come loose, started to drift away from himself, off to where it couldn't hurt because it wasn't there and none of this was really happening, or if it was, it was happening to someone else—because really that's what Liam was _for,_ wasn't it? That's all he was good for anymore, that's all he knew how to do, just stand there and hurt while the rest of him waited it out somewhere safe—

_And there was water in the wall behind him, plumbed through between the bricks, some hot, some cold, and when he twitched his fingers it shivered in anticipation. . . ._

"Shoulda done this _weeks_ ago," Gareth breathed. The other hand had gotten under Nilesy's apron, yanking at his belt. "Ah well. Just make up for it later. Gonna be doin' this a good long while, you an' me. Maybe if you're good, I'll be nicer to you. And hey, think of it this way, boy: you're still on the clock, so you're gettin' _paid_ for me to fuck you."

_So close, all it would take is a twitch and he could watch this_ _ thing _ _choke on the ground at his feet. . . ._

But his mind was too far gone, and he couldn't reach his Powers from there, buried under too many layers of Liam.

Gareth kissed him on the mouth, rough and greedy, and he gave it a good fucking try anyway.

There was a sort of tremor, a heartbeat-tug at the nearest water he could find, and Gareth went stiff against him. The hand around his throat tightened, and the other stopped its fumbling, and Gareth leaned back for a moment, looking over his shoulder.

"The fuck. . . ?" he mumbled. There was the barest hint of fear in his voice.

 _Yes,_ something hissed, deep in the cold core of him. _Fear me._

"You stay here," Gareth snapped, shoving Nilesy hard against the wall. He stalked out into the alley behind the restaurant, fists clenched, shoulders tight. Nilesy tried his damnedest to get hold of his Power again, but it had slipped through his fingers, lost amidst the fog and the frozen trembling of him.

 _"Oy!"_ Gareth snarled out, glaring around the alley. "Anybody playin' funny shit out here had better fuckin' show himself!"

 _Please,_ Nilesy thought. _Please, somebody hear, somebody come, I can't, I can't. . . ._

The only answer was the low roar of Bristol, pouring in from all sides. After a moment, Gareth relaxed, turned back to Nilesy all smiles and gleaming eyes.

"Right then," he said, approaching slowly. "Now where were—"

And that was when the angel dropped from the sky.

It landed right on Gareth, smiting him to the ground in a firework of blood. He didn't even have time to scream. He crumpled beneath the weight of the thing, and its wings flared out huge and golden in the streetlight glow as it crushed him in its talons, making fine red wine from the ruins of his body. Nilesy watched as it ripped him into so much red pulp, patient and methodical. Its blonde hair was matted, its skin pale, its clothes tattered. Under its tender ministrations, there was no doubt that Gareth was _extremely_ dead.

Carefully, Nilesy let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

The angel turned to look at him, the movement of its head sharp enough to startle him. It had huge, round, golden eyes, a long thin nose and feathers framing its face. Its thin lips were set in firm concentration. Nilesy flattened himself against the wall, terror clutching him once again. The angel crept from Gareth's body, moving like a wild animal, its head tipping back and forth as it considered him. Nilesy found the air suddenly too thin to breathe, his heart pounding in his chest. There was blood all over the angel's talons, crimson and dripping.

The angel came right up to him, its face inches from his own, its hands opening and closing by its sides. It looked him over, face shoulders chest and back to face again. Nilesy wanted to squeeze his eyes shut, to flinch from his impending doom, but he couldn't stop looking at the angel, couldn't stop filling his eyes with its striking and immortal beauty. If he was going to die, he wanted to die with this vision in his mind, and nothing else.

 _"Angel,"_ Liam whispered, without consulting him.

This seemed to give the angel pause. It straightened up, folding its wings against its back. It blinked at him.

"No," it said, "I'm a girl. Lomadia." It—she—paused again. "Who're you?"

He tried to answer, but whatever had driven the first word out had gone with it, his voice deserting him once again. He swallowed and bit his lip, trying to slow his breathing at least a little. The angel—girl—continued to stare down at him. She ruffled her wings, then turned her head completely around backwards. It was a mark of how far detached Nilesy's mind had come that this barely phased him at all.

She—Lomadia—looked back to Nilesy.

"You're scared," she said. Her voice was deep and cool, sweet as a clear mountain stream.

At a loss for what else to do, Nilesy nodded.

"He was going to hurt you," she said.

He nodded again. Lomadia looked back at the ruined mess on the ground, and then at Nilesy.

"You can come back with me, if you want," she said. "I've got a safe place. You won't have to be scared there."

She extended a hand. Nilesy looked down at it, his head spinning.

Slowly, he took it. There was no thought left in his head of completing his shift, punching out his timecard, getting home that night. Lomadia swept him up in her arms and leapt into the air, her huge wings beating in perfect silence. Nilesy clung to her, still staring at her face, caring nothing for the ground dropping away below him.

She was, quite possibly, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

* * *

 

Lomadia's safe place turned out to be the roof of an abandoned building. She landed, then took him inside, carrying him like a bride on her wedding day. Inside, she set him down in what could only be described as a _nest_ of blankets, pillows, and quilts, then sat down across from him. With trembling fingers, he managed to get his grimy apron and sweaty hat off, and after that got his belt fastened again, though his face burned with shame. Lomadia just sat and watched him, her face placid.

Nilesy curled up, putting his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. Still filled with ringing tension, he started rocking back and forth, slowly, to release the energy a little at a time instead of all at once.

"You don't have to be scared," Lomadia said. "It's safe here."

He shook his head. _Not scared,_ he wanted to say, but his voice had not come back, and it wouldn't, for as long as she was looking at him. His face prickled, and he pressed his forehead to his knees. That made things a little better, at least; with some time, he might be able to spit out a few words, provided they were short.

"I didn't really mean to save you," said Lomadia. "I was only out hunting. But I'm glad I did. I like you."

"Nks," Nilesy managed. His whole body had gone hot, and something was filling up the misty distance of his mind, something more pleasant than the place it had come from.

_She likes me._ _ She _ _likes me. She_ _ likes _ _me._

"Aww," she said, laughing. "You're cute. Like a little bunny. Usually I eat bunnies, but I don't think I'm going to eat you."

After a moment, Nilesy just said, "Nks," again.

"You're welcome," said Lomadia. "You're too big to eat anyways. What's your name? You've got to have a name. Even bunnies have got names."

It took him a moment, but he managed to say, "Nilesy."

"Nilesy?" said Lomadia. "That's a cute name. It's good, I like it. Why was that man going to hurt you, Nilesy?"

He shrugged. He didn't have the words to explain, and even if he'd had them, he wasn't sure he really knew the answer.

_Because he was a bastard. Because these things happen. Because I couldn't stop him._

"Okay," said Lomadia. "I just don't know why _anybody_ would want to hurt you. It's silly."

Nilesy looked up at her, tears smearing his vision into an impressionist painting. She was watching him, her face lit by the soft glow of the city outside. Once again, the beauty of her struck him, made his hollow insides ring and his skin ache with the need to touch her.

Carefully, he unfolded himself, scooting his way across the nest to be close to her. She watched him, making no move to stop him, unquestioning. Carefully, he reached up a hand and touched her hair. It was not, as he'd thought at first, matted, but it was tangled enough that it would get that way if left alone.

He hesitated, then started combing the tangles out with his fingers. Lomadia just watched him, her chest rising and falling, her golden eyes blinking down at him. Her thin lips were curled into a smile. She did not move, except to dip her head a little—did not put her hands on him, did not lean closer to him.

For the next hour, he untangled her hair with his hands, slowly moving closer until he was sat in her lap with his head on her chest, cradled in her arms, gently stroking the back of her head even though her hair was as smooth as he could make it. Her body was abnormally warm, her heartbeat quick, the feathers at the sides of her face soft. She watched him the whole time, her eyes never wavering, and by the end of it his face was barely prickling at all anymore.

"You're very nice," she said softly. "But you've got to go home now."

He stiffened, his hand pausing in its eternal stroking. He did not want to go back to his cold, dingy, lonely flat. That was not home. This was more home than it had ever been, here in her arms.

"C'n . . . stay?" he asked, hoping against hope.

"No," said Lomadia, as though he was very foolish for asking. "I've got things to do. You've got to go home now."

Nilesy swallowed, bowing his head. He wrapped his arm around her neck and clung on, half because he wanted to be close to her for as long as possible and half to make it easier to pick him up.

Lomadia picked him up, carried him out into the night and leapt from the roof of the building. His face stung in the cold, and so he buried it in her chest. She smelled of dust and feathers and some sharp, wild scent he could not place. Her wings beat silently above him, tousling his hair.

"Where's home?" she asked. "Or else I'll just put you back where I found you, but I don't think that's your home."

With his face so snugly hidden, and her eyes not even on him, he managed to give scant directions, at least to the right neighborhood. She set him down about a block from his flat, in a poorly-lit back alley with snowmelt dripping from the gutters. She took a step back from him, looking him up and down with her huge golden eyes, and combed her fingers through her hair.

"Okay," she said. "Bye."

She leapt into the air, wings flaring, and he blurted out, "Can I see you again?"

All the words, all together, all at once, plenty loud enough to be heard. He clapped a hand over his mouth, startled at the way they had poured from him so easily, and him not even wearing a mask.

Lomadia alighted on a roof, talons clicking against the storm drain, and looked down at him. After a moment, she smiled.

"Okay," she said.

And then she was gone, and Nilesy was left there with more warmth than he knew what to do with.

"Lomadia," he said. The word fogged the air in front of him, having flowed so sweetly off his tongue. He wrapped his arms around himself to hold in the warmth, and his face pulled into a most uncommon expression, one it had not known in years.

It was, he recalled, a smile.


	5. Hang Together

It was the mad scramble of the Powered boy's mind that first drew Zylus's attention.

The little coffee shop wasn't particularly busy, but there were no unoccupied tables anyway. He'd been planning to just get his coffee and leave, find somewhere else to sit (possibly in his car) before going back home. He'd intended this outing as a little break from being locked up in his tiny flat with the roommates who never _said_ they hated him, but whose nasty little resentments tickled his extra sense with grubby rat-claws at every opportunity. The shop was full of a low murmur of thought, generally unremarkable, except that one voice, tripping over itself in blurred haste.

_Fucking Ragsdale—stupid weekend homework—fucking kill him fucking kill everyone in that fucking—and Nilesy—stupid Nilesy fucking Nilesy won't shut his fucking mouth who_ _ cares _ _about fucking YogLabs—don't give a fuck about stupid poems—do your fucking revolution with your stupid mouth_ _ shut _ _Christ's sake—but Lom'd hate me—fucking kill him_ _ too _ _easy goddamn—_

And there followed a crimson account of all the terrible violence Panda would inflict upon this Nilesy person—some sad-looking young man in a suit—and then upon Ragsdale—evidently a professor—and his entire lecture hall. Zylus was only mildly perturbed; people thought about murder a surprising amount, and rarely did anything come of it. This one might be rather more serious, but something else had caught his attention and was making it difficult for him to care particularly much.

_Yoglabs. Revolution._

"—sir?" said the barista, her voice finally cutting into his own grim musings.

 _Hello, earth to Freckles,_ she thought, only mildly put out by his inattention.

The blush started at his hips and rose all the way to his hairline. Stuttering and fumbling, he managed to order and pay for his coffee, though he felt like steam was sure to start venting out of his ears at any moment. He managed to escape without overly inconveniencing anybody, and went to hide by the window while he waited for his coffee.

Again, the quickfire thoughts of the Powered boy inexorably drew his attention.

_The haiku is a—who the fuck doesn't know what a haiku is—thinks we're all fucking idiots—no reason for this—Nilesy thinks I'm a fucking idiot too cut his goddamn throat out stupid bastard hate him—_

Zylus was not certain that people who hated other people thought quite so much about snogging them in bed, but since the imaginings came only in flickers and he was not an expert on the subject, he decided it was better not to wonder. He shifted slightly, feeling a shameful delight in his voyeuristic eavesdropping. His only excuse was listening for another mention of YogLabs, and whatever revolution this Nilesy person had in mind.

"Zachary?" the barista called out. He wasn't sure how many times she'd called him, and at that point he didn't really care, too distracted by the Powered boy's thoughts. He picked up his coffee and again cast his eye about for a place to sit.

In the corner by the window, there was a young black man, hunched over some sort of textbook with a scowl on his scarred face so fierce it was a wonder the book didn't catch fire under it. He was jittering one leg so fast it was blurring, drinking a huge vanilla iced coffee and picking at the remains of one of the shop's exceedingly sugary scones. With only a moment's focus, Zylus determined that here, in fact, was the source of that waterfall of thought.

 _Hell with it,_ he decided, and walked over.

He stood next to the table for a good ten seconds, fidgeting and sweating as he waited for the young man to notice him, frantically trying to find something to say to catch his attention—

The boy looked up.

_Who the fuck—oh great perfect wonderful just when I had a table all to myself—fuck off—at least he's cute—fucking Nilesy fucking show_ _ him _ _bring home my own goddamn boyfriend—come on, Panda, don't be rude—fuck I must be getting high I'm never this pissy when I'm not high—stupid why've you got to be so stupid—_

"What?" he snapped, talking over the mess of his thoughts.

"Um," said Zylus, his confidence waning to a mere sliver. He gestured to the empty chair. "Mind if I shit here?"

The boy's eyes narrowed, his eyebrows drew together, the corners of his mouth turned down.

"You _what?"_ he said, a hundred foul things sprinting through his mind at top-speed.

"If I—if I take thish sheat," Zylus said, blushing terrifically.

"Oh. _Oh._ Right, yeah, whatever, have at it," said the boy, turning back to his textbook.

_The villanelle (also known as the villanesque) is—christ what a lisp—shouldn't laugh not his fault not funny—didn't fucking bolus enough that's why you're high you idiot—weirdo, still cute though—shouldn't_ _ laugh, _ _Panda—a nineteen-line poetic form consisting of—_

Carefully, Zylus lowered himself into his chair. The fever pitch of Panda's thoughts—Panda was _probably_ his name, after all—was making him dizzy. He drank his coffee slowly, trying to think of the best way to approach this. He'd decided long ago that YogLabs had to go—he'd heard too many frightened thoughts, felt too much vicarious grief and horror and trauma to possibly think otherwise. It was simple fact that he had no tools whatsoever to dismantle the towering behemoth, and so he'd been keeping an ear out—metaphorically—for others who might have had the same idea who were somewhat more capable than him.

And who, of course, were missing some fundamental piece. It needn't be a piece that Zylus actually matched—just one a specially constructed persona could squeeze into well enough to forge a sense of fitting. Thus far he'd had no real luck finding anyone who was serious about overthrowing YogLabs—a good many people thought about it, but no one ever wanted to say it out loud.

By the time he was halfway through his coffee, Zylus decided that in this particular case, bluntness was the way to go.

"Sho," he said quietly, "overthrowing YogLabsh, huh?"

Panda froze, and his mind sped up to a whir so fast that Zylus could catch none of it, just a scramble of words and a blur of colors and a howling sort of scream that could only be described as _terror._

"I'm a telepath," he went on easily, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs at the ankles. He took a sip of his coffee, falling into the role of the confident and irreverent benefactor that he absolutely wasn't. "I heard you thinking about it."

"What do you want?" Panda croaked, staring at his textbook unseeing.

"Well," Zylus said, casting his eyes to the ceiling. "If you're not _sherioush_ about it, I'm sure you have nothing to worry about. You _or_ Nileshy, or Lomadia."

The terror ratcheted up another notch. Vague flashes of half-baked plans, concocted in panic, flitted through Zylus's head as Panda dreamed them up and discarded them. Dashing out the door in a blur of speed. Upending the table, drawing the knife that rested cold against his tailbone, blood and splinters and shattered glass.

Oh yes. He was serious. And the mention of his co-conspirators had shaken him badly.

"I'm not going to rat you out," Zylus said, even more quietly. "I'm with you on thish one. Maybe we could find shomewhere more private to talk."

Half-formed fears swam up in Panda's head, all the warnings from his youth not to go off with strangers, the sketches colored in garish by the unspeakable wisdom of adulthood. Zylus snorted.

"I'll tell you what: if I try anything funny, you can shtab me in the throat with one of the—how many knivesh do you have on you right now?"

_Belt both hips shoe pocket pocket pocket pocket bag one two three and four—_

"One of the _twleve_ knivesh you have on you right now," Zylus concluded, and he couldn't stop his voice from shaking just a little. If Panda _did_ decide to kill him, he stood no chance whatsoever.

Panda's eyes flicked up, and his voice boomed out from inside his head, nearly all his conscious trains of thought banding together in a single voice.

_IF YOU CAN HEAR ME—_

Zylus flinched, the sheer volume of it like a screwdriver in his temple.

 _"Chrisht,_ not sho fucking _loud!"_ he hissed, putting a hand to his head.

_Sorry—shit whoops I didn't—serves you right cheeky fuck—shut up Panda you're an ass—stupid high—_

"You _can_ jusht talk out loud," Zylus told him, bemused. He decided not to ask about the _high_ business. It was more fun to figure it out on his own. "My earsh work fine."

_Yeah but you might've just been a spy—stupid of course he's not—stop fucking calling me stupid—_

"Wanted to know if you were . . . y'know. Legit," Panda mumbled. He took a long sip of his vanilla iced coffee.

_Already high might as well finish it—check your stupid sugar might not even be high—but there's_ _ things _ _happening!_

"I _am,"_ said Zylus. "And if you want proof, how'sh thish: think of a number between one and a million."

_One—million—okay—forty-two—no—_

"Forty-two," said Zylus.

"Lucky guess," Panda snapped.

 _Holy shit he's for real,_ he thought.

"Look," said Zylus, leaning his elbows on the table. He couldn't force himself to make eye-contact with Panda, so he just stared fixedly at the bridge of his nose. "If you're sherioush about thish YogLabsh thing, and your buddiesh are, too, then I want in. But I want to talk about thish, with _all_ of you, to make sure you're really up to it. You firsht, shinshe you're here."

_Why? Why do you want—something happened—like Nilesy said—something always happened—fucking Nilesy—trying to rat us out—loads of people died—still a spy just legit too—_

"Like I shaid," Zylus said, shrugging. "If I turn out to be a shpy, you could shtab me twelve timesh before I could get two shtepsh. Beshidesh, what kind of shelf-reshpecting Powered pershon would be working for _YogLabsh?"_

"They _have_ got that Division—"

"I shaid _shelf-reshpecting,"_ Zylus said flatly. "Pick shomeplashe quiet where we can talk more."

_Flat—no—library probably—might be too public—upper floors though—I guess—really_ _ got _ _to check my sugar—_

"Library worksh," said Zylus, standing up. "And I promishe I won't mind if you check your sugar on the way."

Panda stared up at him for a moment, then slammed his textbook shut.

* * *

 

A week later, Zylus met Nilesy.

Panda had insisted that it had to be one-on-one—Nilesy's demands, not his own. There could be no crowds, no passerby, no _witnesses._ The setup made Zylus nervous, but if Nilesy was planning to murder him, Panda didn't know about it, so he decided to take his chances.

He also brought his pepper spray, just in case.

He'd been waiting in a back alley for some time now, leaned up against the wall in the dark. It was drizzling, and the night was chilly. He fingered the pepper spray in his pocket, keeping all his senses open. There was a low buzz of thought from the nearby street, the buildings that butted up on the alleyway, but nothing stood out particularly.

Slowly, he became aware of _something._ It was a low roar amidst the rest of the noise in his head, dark and reeking of brine, like being submerged in the ocean. Zylus tensed. The sensation was getting stronger, coming closer, and now he could hear snatches of thought amidst the turmoil.

_Fine—worry—telepath though—fine, Nilesy, it'll be_ _ fine _ _—worse comes to worst just kill him—_

Zylus took a slow, deep breath and reeled in his Powers, pulling into himself but still keeping an ear on Nilesy's thoughts as they approached, growing clearer with every passing moment. By the time the figure appeared at the end of the alley, Zylus had affected his easy persona again, although his hand was clenched white-knuckled on the pepper spray in his pocket.

"Nileshy, I preshume?" he said, raising an eyebrow.

 _Ooh, he's good,_ Nilesy thought, pleased. Somewhere just beneath the surface, though, there was a spark of fear, skittering around inside something vast and terrible.

He grinned, approaching. He was wearing a white cat mask and a sharp three-piece suit.

"Got it in one," he said. "I'm guessing you're the famous Zylus, although if you're not, you've got incredible timing."

"Jusht Zylush," said Zylus. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing up. The closer Nilesy got to him, the more he wanted to climb up the wall behind him to get away.

 _"Ex_ -cellent," said Nilesy. He rubbed his hands together.

 _Now, how_ _shall_ _we test you, Mr. Zylus?_ he wondered. His eyes were bright. His words were hollow against the massive _thing_ behind them, the cold abyss lurking just beneath the surface of his conscious thought.

"You'd think Panda would be tesht enough," said Zylus.

 _Oh, you_ _are_ _good,_ Nilesy thought, but again, there was that spark of fear, words murmured and muffled, voices that were not his own, blurry figures and the smell of brine.

"Not that sort of test," Nilesy said. "Clearly your Powers are real, and remarkably effective, ahahah. No, I want to know why you'd want to help us. And do try to make it convincing, darling."

 _Haven't killed anyone in weeks,_ he thought, and there was something of wanting in the words, an ache of desperation like the insatiable hunger of an addict. The silvery surface of the abyss stirred, ever so slightly. Zylus gulped.

"I've sheen what they do to people," he said. "I shee it everywhere, all the time. In people'sh headsh. There'sh no getting away from it. They have to go."

"No personal issues, then?" Nilesy inquired, tipping his head to the side. "Awfully altruistic of you. One might almost say _heroic."_

 _Can't abide heroes,_ he thought, and the abyss rippled with his breath. _Say it, go on. Say it's for the greater good, give me a reason. . . ._

Zylus snorted. "Anyone who callsh _me_ a hero ish an idiot," he said. "I know where my besht intereshtsh lie. Jusht becaushe they haven't come after me yet doeshn't mean they won't. Beshidesh, do you have any _idea_ how much it fucking shucksh, having to walk around all day lishtening to other people'sh horror shtoriesh? Never a fucking moment'sh resht. I'd take the whole fucking lot of them down jusht for a night'sh resht."

Nilesy laughed. "Oh, _very_ good, Zylus. I like you. I wonder if that's on purpose?"

Zylus stiffened. His hand clenched on the pepper spray until the plastic creaked.

"I don't know what you mean," he said carefully.

 _Of course you do,_ Nilesy thought.

"No? Not to worry, then, ignore me," he said, grinning. "Well, you've certainly got Panda convinced we could use you, and generally I trust his judgement."

 _On everything except me,_ he added to himself. _Poor little sod._

"Sho ish that it, then?" Zylus asked.

Nilesy shrugged. "If you like. You've still got to meet Lom, of course, but I've never met a sane person who objected to Lom."

 _Who lived to tell the tale,_ he thought, his smile widening just a touch.

"Before I agree to anything," Zylus said. "I want to know why _you're_ doing thish. I'm not lending my shupport to shomeone who'sh jusht going to pick up where YogLabsh left off."

"That so?" said Nilesy. "All right. Have a look, then."

_This is stupid this is stupid this is stupid—too late, I've already said it—_ _ fuck _ _you—deal with it, darling, it's done—_

Zylus clenched his jaw, and narrowed his eyes, and plunged into the abyss.

Words surrounded him, swirling through the darkness like sparks in a tornado. Conscious thought, subsisting in the photic zone close to the surface.

 _Photic zone._ Nilesy's words, not his, prescribed automatically to fit the metaphor Zylus found himself in. Thoughts were seeping in through the back of his head, secret and unintentional, blurring the lines between himself and his subject. He pushed onward, biting his tongue to hold himself together.

There was a pub, dimly lit, the image fogged by memory. There were yells and broken glass and a stark white terror, cowering beneath the bar, blood and fists and bared teeth. The pall of death hung over the scene, the word _freak_ lacing the air like smoke. Zylus tried to pull back but there was more, deeper and farther, dredged up by his thought of smoke—for here there _was_ smoke, billowing from a little house, and he stood—no, _Nilesy_ stood—staring in helpless horror with screams ringing in his ears, only his name wasn't Nilesy then, it was Liam, and they were screaming it, all screaming it, begging him to help but he was paralyzed, his Powers deserted him, his voice deserted him—

Distantly, Zylus could feel blood trickling over his lips. He grabbed at the feeling, panicking, clawing his way back to his body, but there was more, always more, dragging him down and down into the crushing depths of Nilesy's mind.

The sharp smell of antiseptic. White walls, salt on his fingers, something tugging at the skin of his face. He was screaming, his father stood over him, implacable, diamond-hard eyes and put-upon sighs and hands like iron, the bitter taste of pills in his mouth and a slow and drowning horror—

Zylus's knees hit the ground, somewhere thousands of miles away—

Drowning, drowning in the crushing dark, and he couldn't breathe, and it was agony, and the stars were blurred by the inch of water above him, the moon wobbling in the sky like a silver jelly, and it was freezing and he was sinking down and down and down and _he deserved this—_

Zylus blacked out.

* * *

 

He came to with a splitting migraine, so blisteringly painful that he couldn't even open his eyes. He was vaguely aware that he was lying on a couch. There were two—no, three—other people in the room with him, although one of them didn't feel quite human, more like a dog or a cat. He groaned.

"He's awake," a woman said. The quiet mind, the animal one, stirred slightly, a rustling of feathers and thoughts that were more image than word. It was a soft place, an easy place, and Zylus wanted nothing more than to bury himself in it. The moment he tried to peer any closer, though, the right side of his head caved in with a hammer-blow of pain. He winced, putting a hand to his head, nauseous.

"Is he okay?" Panda asked. The scramble of his mind was doing nothing to help Zylus's nausea, although there was some comfort in familiarity.

 _"I_ dunno," said the woman. "He looks ill."

"Migraine," Zylus croaked. He nearly threw up. Speaking made his head ring like a bell.

"Oh, shit, that's bad," said Panda. "What should we do?"

Zylus was incapable of answering. Someone touched a cool, damp washcloth to his head, which didn't help, but wasn't the worst thing that could've happened. He wished desperately that he could pass out again.

He could hear, like hailstones against his eardrums, the clacking of a keyboard. He wasn't sure how much time had passed since Panda had last spoken—things like that were slippery, especially in the wake of what he'd seen in Nilesy's head. Years had passed in a matter of minutes, and it hadn't stopped when he'd passed out. There was still flotsam drifting about in his head like the wreckage of a ship after a storm. Some very unpleasant things were piecing themselves together.

Suffice it to say, he had no doubts that Nilesy was entirely earnest—and entirely _justified—_ in his hatred of YogLabs.

"Apparently there's some meds you can take for them," Panda said. "And, like, an icepack on the back of the neck, it says?"

"What meds?" Nilesy asked. The sound of his voice made Zylus's heart skip a beat in terror. That mind was still there, still in the room with him, that crushing frigid abyss of fear and pain and _rage. . . ._

"Shh, it's okay," the woman said. Someone lifted up his head and put a wet washcloth under his neck. A pair of lips touched his forehead. "You'll be okay. Nilesy carried you home because you passed out. You'll be okay."

Zylus whimpered. It was the best he could do.

"He's going to get you meds now. You'll be okay. We'll take care of you."

"Who. . . ?" he managed.

"Lomadia," she said. "And you're Zylus." There was a crinkling noise. "And this's an icepack that I'm going to put on your neck."

Again, his head was lifted. Something cold and lumpy was nestled under his neck. Almost imperceptibly, the pain decreased.

Lomadia was stroking his hair, petting him like a kitten. The soft quiet of her mind was soothing in the wake of all the turmoil that had come before it. Panda was still whirring away in the background, worried. Nilesy had gone.

He decided, right then and there, he was _never_ going anywhere near Nilesy's head again.


	6. Sequence of Events

_Iteration Log of Project 41 Practical Trials_

_Principal Investigator: Llewellyn Xephos, PhD_

_YogLabs: Section L Intelligence Program (SLIP)_

 

**Iteration L41-A**

Program failed to boot. Suspect overheating of neural web—smoke produced from head, neck area. Design revisions necessary.

 

**Iteration L41-B**

Program failed to boot, overheating once again. Coolant flow still insufficient to disperse heat from neural network. Considering distributed intelligence. Design revisions necessary.

 

**Iteration L41-C**

Program failed to boot. No overheating suspected, as thermal scans reveal chassis temperature of 40±5ºC. Distributed neural network appears functional. Further investigations necessary, but possible software problem. Running debug, will repeat booting.

 

Repeated booting successful—purged logic loop in personality matrix. Program capable of simple call-response computing, no apparent personality or inclination to question. Fails Turing Test. Clearly not running correctly. Further modifications necessary to ensure all code runs.

 

**Iteration L41-D**

Booting successful. Call-response functions operational. Hints of personality developing. Marginal Turing Test results. Code still not running in entirety (recall: passed Turing Test when run on Sec. L supercomputing facility). Further modifications necessary.

 

**Iteration L41-E**

Booting successful. Call-response functions operational. Personality evidently intact. Passed Turing Test, barely. Exhibits childlike behavior, thoughts. Emotional responses stunted.

Motor functions generally operational, if clumsy. Spatial awareness is poor. Balance is poor. Proprioception is poor. May require updated neural network to correct.

 

Correction necessary. L41-E has fallen down several flights of stairs and is non-operational. Design modifications necessary.

 

**Iteration L41-F**

Booting successful. Call-response functions operational. Personality mostly intact, although some differences exist. Passed Turing Test. Continued childlike behavior, thoughts. Emotional responses stunted.

Motor functions much improved. Proprioception, spatial awareness excellent. Balance still poor. L41-F has developed novel method of locomotion in rolling across floor from point to point. Refuses to attempt to correct this behavior. Seems to think it is funny. Modifications necessary.

 

**Iteration L41-G**

Booting successful. Call-response functions operational. Personality apparently intact, although misgivings exist. Passed Turing Test. Childlike behavior, thoughts apparently absent. Emotional responses nonexistent.

Motor functions initially optimal. Balance much improved with addition of gyroscopic calibration center. Monitoring throughout several days to ensure continued function.

 

Weapons testing disastrous. Flaw in morality database resulted in incomplete recall. Casualties minor, but flaw major—Program deemed all humans 'immoral' and attempted to correct through mass murder. Shut down via verbal paradox. Modifications necessary.

 

**Iteration L41-H**

Booting successful. Call-response functions operational. Personality intact (so far). Passed Turing Test. Childlike behavior and thoughts present in spades. Emotional responses perhaps exaggerated.

Motor functions optimal. Monitoring throughout several days.

 

Weapons testing unsuccessful. MALaRs failed to prime, flight boosters semi-functional at best. Failure prompted system shut-down due to excessive emotional response. Rebooting.

 

Continued system shut-downs due to excessive emotional response. Rebooting unsuccessful in all cases. Code must be adjusted to reset emotional state post-shutdown.

 

**Iteration L41-I**

 

Booting successful. Call-response functions operational. Personality intact. Passed Turing Test. Childlike behavior and thoughts evident. Emotional responses appropriate.

Motor functions optimal. Monitoring throughout several days.

 

Section L employee pushed L41-I down stairs to 'test balance.' Program subsequently escaped building, complex. Hit by car. Chassis damage minimal, but circuitry, hydraulics irretrievable. Car damage significant.

Someone is getting fired today.

 

**Iteration L41-J**

 

Booting successful. Call-response functions operational. Personality intact. Passed Turing Test. Childlike behavior and thoughts evident. Emotional responses appropriate.

Motor functions optimal. Monitoring throughout several days.

 

Weapons testing unsuccessful. Systems operational, but Program failed to utilize. Suspect morality database flaw. Considering purging altogether (but recall G). Delicate balance clearly necessary. Modifications pending.

 

**Iteration L41-K**

 

Booting successful. Call-response functions operational. Personality intact. Passed Turing Test. Childlike behavior and thoughts evident. Emotional responses appropriate.

Motor functions optimal. Monitoring throughout several days.

 

Weapons testing successful. MALaRs, flight boosters functioned optimally, utilized appropriately. Training clearly necessary, but possible without redesign. Beginning socialization process tomorrow.

 

Program encountered paradox and crashed. Rebooting did not repair. Suspect physical damage to systems due to crash, perhaps overheating. Behavior was modified prior to crash—vocal distortions, loss of fine motor control (hence suspicion of overheating). Modifications necessary.

 

**Iteration L41-L**

 

Booting successful. Call-response functions operational. Personality intact. Passed Turing Test. Childlike behavior and thoughts evident. Emotional responses appropriate.

Motor functions optimal. Monitoring throughout several days.

 

Weapons testing generally successful. MALaRs, flight boosters functional, utilized minimally. Again, training possible to correct. Beginning socialization process tomorrow.

 

Paradox issue not corrected. Program froze and then crashed irretrievably. Overheating _not_ culprit—monitored temperature throughout. Not sure what is cause, since quantum drive should be capable of discarding paradoxical information. Modifications necessary.

 

**Iteration L41-M**

 

Booting successful. Call-response functions operational. Personality intact. Passed Turing Test. Childlike behavior and thoughts evident. Emotional responses appropriate.

 

Tested paradox before motor, weapons functions. Program crashed. God dammit.

 

**Iteration L41-NA**

 

Booting successful. Call-response functions operational. Personality intact. Passed Turing Test. Childlike behavior and thoughts evident. Emotional responses appropriate.

 

 ** _Survived paradox_** _!!_ Code functional. Motor functions optimal. Weapons testing commences tomorrow. Has requested birthday party. Will accede. Named "Lalna" for ease of reference/integration into society.

 

Weapons testing successful. MALaRs, flight boosters operational, although program reluctant to utilize. Can be trained out. Beginning socialization tomorrow.

 

**Iteration L41-NB**

 

Following success of NA, duplicating model. Stripping personality matrix, morality database. Will use as control for emotional response tests/backup in case of incident.

 

Booting successful. Call-response functions operational. No evident personality. Failed Turing Test. Childlike behavior and thoughts may persist (possibly due to simplicity of neural matrix). Emotional responses nonexistent.

Motor functions optimal. Weapons systems operational, utilized effectively. Still requires training—perhaps possible to transfer training data from NA to save time.

 

Has requested name "Lalnable," further demonstrating hints of personality. Not risking entire personality matrix to correct—will comply instead.

 

W. Strife requests Lalnable for personal use. Unacceptable. Have agreed, for now. Modifications necessary.

 


	7. Papers, Please

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to wait until after the story proper was finished to post this, but since so many people have been asking me about how The Big Move was going to be accomplished, I thought I'd go ahead and post it.
> 
> This takes place after the end of Powered, just fyi. So as of its posting, it's a glimpse into the ~*~Future~*~

For once, Minty looked surprised to see him.

"Um," said Rythian, rubbing his arm and not looking directly at her. "Hi."

"Hi," said Minty. "God, you look awful, get in here."

She stood aside, and he slipped into the pub, blushing. She poured him a beer and set it on the bar, leaning up against the counter.

"Thanks," Rythian mumbled. He lifted up his respirator and took a long slug of the beer.

"I hope you're not here to see Tom," Minty said. "You look like you've been through hell already."

"I . . . am," Rythian admitted. He scratched the back of his neck. "I'm. . . . Minty, can you keep a secret?"

"Ryth, I've got more people's secrets up here than I can count," Minty said, tapping her temple. "Tell me."

"All that . . . YogLabs stuff. With the robots. That . . . I was sort of . . . part of that."

Minty stared at him. She turned away, poured herself a beer, and drank it in one go. She refilled her glass and turned back to him.

"You don't say," she said.

"Yes," said Rythian, choosing not to comment. "And—now I'm leaving the country. Me and . . . some other people. I thought if anybody could get us all the paperwork, Tom could."

"Paperwork for. . . ?"

"Fake passports. And stuff."

"Ah, right. Well, he probably knows someone who knows someone. I doubt he'll make it cheap, though." She paused, peering at him. "Are you blushing?"

"No," said Rythian, although now that she mentioned it, a flood of warmth rose to his cheeks.

"You know," Minty said, smirking, "Tom's rather taken a shine to you, I think. Sure you're not just here to give him a kiss goodbye before you run off?"

"I'm sure," Rythian said flatly.

"Sure you're not just here to _get_ a—"

"Thank you for the drink," Rythian said, getting to his feet.

"Oh, you haven't got to be like that, I'm only fooling."

"Minty," Rythian said, "it's been a—a very _difficult_ week, and I am . . . not really in the mood. For fooling. About Tom."

"Sorry," said Minty. "Should I keep this beer up here for you, or are you done with it?"

Rythian considered for a moment. "Hang on to it," he said, "um. If you . . . don't mind."

"I don't," said Minty. "Best of luck down there, let me know how it goes."

He softened, scratching the back of his neck again. "Thanks, Minty," he said.

"Anytime, Ryth."

Rythian made his way down the red-lit stairs and into the pungent basement. Tom was reclining on one of his chairs, watching some sort of animal documentary. He looked up when Rythian came in and grinned.

"Sparky!" he said, delighted. "Wasn't sure you were coming back after last time. God, you look like hell. How've you been?"

"Tom, I . . . need a favor," Rythian said.

"Sure, sure," said Tom, getting to his feet. "We doing a siphon today, too? Or is it just the favor?"

"That depends," Rythian said cagily. "How much do you charge for fake identities?"

Tom raised his eyebrows. "Running from the law, are you?"

"Not exactly."

"Ooh, _mysterious._ 'Fraid you _will_ have to tell me who you _are_ running from, otherwise I can't help you. Got to protect my other customers, y'know. Can't have someone like YogLabs snooping about down here. So who is it?"

"YogLabs," said Rythian.

"Well!" Tom said pleasantly. "Fuck."

The respirator hid Rythian's smile, which he was glad of. "You can say that again," he muttered.

"Okay," said Tom. "Fuck. What've you done to piss off YogLabs, Sparky?"

Rythian shrugged. "It doesn't matter. The point is, we're leaving the country and we don't want them to follow us."

"There's a _we,_ is there?" said Tom. "You and who else? Partner in crime, something like that?"

"Partners," said Rythian.

"Good grief, you _do_ get around," said Tom. "Can't blame them, though. How many?"

Rythian counted quickly in his head. "Seven," he said, "including me."

Tom let out a low whistle. "Where _do_ you find the time, Sparky? Nearly one for every day of the week, though I s'pose you've got to have a day for yourself."

"Not that kind of partner," Rythian snapped, bristling.

Tom winked at him. "Sure, sure," he said. "These partners of yours got papers already?"

"Most of them," said Rythian. Just the thought of Lalna was enough to make him blush, and he was for once glad of the red lighting in Tom's basement. "One doesn't."

"No papers at all?" Tom inquired. "That's going to be a bit tough, I'll have to charge extra for that."

"Fine," said Rythian. "How much?"

Tom sucked in a breath through his teeth and considered the ceiling. "Ooh, hm, that's a tough one. Depends mostly on what sorts of papers you need." He raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Passports, mostly," said Rythian. "One Swedish, one Dutch, five British."

Tom winced. "Could be worse," he said. He scratched his beard. "I'd put you at around . . . twenty thou? And that's just for the passports, mind, you want other paperwork it'll be double, triple that."

Rythian stared at him, aghast. "Twen—twenty _thousand pounds?"_ he said, his voice cracking.

"They're not cheap," Tom said, shrugging. "Takes a good bit of work to get 'em together."

"Do you mind if I sit down?" Rythian said faintly. Tom gestured to the field of bean bag chairs, and Rythian tottered over to one before depositing himself in it. Tom settled back into his own chair. He picked up a half-smoked joint and examined it, then held it out to Rythian.

"Care to partake?" he asked. "Might take the edge off."

"Twenty _thousand_ pounds," Rythian muttered, wide-eyed and unseeing. "Holy shit. Holy _shit."_

Tom shrugged and lit the joint, taking a slow drag off it. "Just let me know if you fancy a puff."

After almost a minute of silence, Rythian held out his hand. Tom very gingerly handed him the joint, ensuring their fingers never touched. Rythian did not, in the end, hand it back, even though Tom was making puppy eyes at him.

"Where the fuck are we going to get twenty _thousand_ pounds?" Rythian wondered, his voice wheezy from the shock and the smoke. His eyes were watering.

"Dunno," said Tom. "Have you really burnt up that whole thing? Here I am being hospitable and you're being an awfully inconsiderate guest."

"You offered," said Rythian.

"I didn't mean for you to have the _whole thing._ That's going to fuck you up something good, Sparky."

"Good," said Rythian. "Twenty _thousand pounds._ Christ!"

"These buddies of yours," Tom said. "Powered?"

"Most of them," said Rythian. He looked over at Tom, eyes narrowed. "Why?"

Tom shrugged. "Just thinking I could lower the price a bit if we had some sort of trade agreement, you know. Something like that. Could knock off a good three hundred right here if you hop on the siphon for a couple hours."

"Yes, I'm sure that'll make a huge difference," Rythian said dryly.

"Hey, nineteen thousand seven-hundred is better than twenty thou," Tom said. "And if somebody you know's got real _special_ Powers, you could make a bit of a dent for sure. Some people pay top-dollar for odd things, y'know."

"Like what?" Rythian asked.

"Oh, y'know," said Tom, waving a hand. "Fake passports."

"You're a piece of shit," he snapped. Tom grinned at him.

"Nah, but in all seriousness. I once had a guy pay upwards of two-k for a leg."

"A l—a _leg?"_

"Sure," said Tom. "Some people are into that sort of thing."

_"A leg?!"_

"It grew back," said Tom, pouting. "I told her she'd be better off selling organs if she could grow 'em back like that, but she wasn't having any of it. Guess she knew most people won't buy Powered organs. Not that I'd've told anybody they were Powered, 'course."

Rythian stared at him for a long moment.

"You are so much more fucked up than I ever could have guessed," he said at last.

"Well, maybe," said Tom.

"You cut off someone's _leg."_

"It grew back!" he said, then added mildly, "In a couple months."

"What the fuck."

"It's only business, Sparky. It's not like she was conscious for it, I'm not a monster. All very clinical."

Rythian held up a hand and tried to focus. It was getting somewhat more difficult. An ache had sprung up behind his right eyebrow.

"Okay, forget all of that," he said. "I'm just . . . going to try and bleach all of that completely out of my brain."

"All right," said Tom. "What've you got in your camp, then? To trade, I mean."

Rythian sighed. "I don't think I should be . . . brokering other people's stuff," he mumbled.

"Well, if that's what you want," said Tom, shrugging. "It's not like you're agreeing to anything. Besides, I bet your buddies won't like that twenty-thou figure any more than you did."

"That . . . is true," said Rythian. "Right. Okay."

He gave a brief description of the party, minus Lalna, and their assorted Powers. Tom listened attentively, never interrupting.

"Right," he said, when Rythian was done. "So that's an acidiferous mucogen, a hyperkinesthete, a _hydro_ kinesthete, a telepath, a bimorph, and lovely you."

"I . . . guess?" said Rythian. It all sounded like gibberish to him. The use of the word _lovely_ made his cheeks hot.

"Might be able to get something off the mucogen," Tom mused. "But knowing her, I don't think she's selling for any price."

"Knowing. . . ?"

"If it's who I think it is, and I think it is," said Tom, smiling at him. "She popped by, looking for you. _Ages_ ago. Wouldn't sell me a drop."

Rythian put his face in his hands. "Christ," he muttered. "What the fuck are we going to do."

"Got any spare kidneys?" Tom inquired. "I wouldn't take one from you or the hyperkin or miss mucogen. Or, y'know, I s'pose from the bimorph, either, their insides are always a bit messy. Maybe the hydro, or the telepath. Yeah, definitely the telepath, nobody gives a shit about kidneys that can hear you thinking. You've got one normie, too, haven't you? Only you said _seven_ passports and I only heard six Powers."

"They—no," said Rythian. "That would not work. At all. A-and I'm not—selling off anybody's organs, no, that's ridiculous."

"No?" said Tom. "One quality kidney'll run you a good ten thou if you find the right buyer, that's half your cost right there. Or if somebody with a uterus has got eggs they're not using, you can get four thou at least for them. One person can get two hundred a month on blood alone if—"

"Nobody's selling organs," Rythian snapped.

"If you say so," said Tom. He grinned. "Considered prostitution? Dunno why I'm asking _you_ that, I'm sure it's crossed your—"

"I will kill you right fucking here," Rythian said. Sparks swarmed in his hair, making it bristle.

"Only saying, Sparky," Tom said, raising his hands in a gesture of peace. "Only job where you make _more_ if you're Powered. There's some freaky folks—sorry, poor word choice, didn't mean it like that—some kinky sods out there, and plenty of them are rich."

Tom paused, scratching his beard.

"Actually," he said, "most of them. Maybe it's a rich people thing, like coke. Or that booze with the gold in it, whatever that stuff is."

"No," Rythian growled.

"Well, dunno what to tell you, Sparky," Tom sighed. "I like you, but I can't just wave a wand and get you seven fake passports for free. I've got a business to run, after all."

Rythian considered for a long time. He was having trouble thinking straight, partially because of the weed, but mostly because he was wondering how bad of an idea it _would_ be to sell himself off for a few nights to rich fetishists with too much time on their hands.

"What about a loan?" he asked at last.

"What about it?" Tom replied.

"You get the passports, and I can pay you back. With interest."

"Sparky, I'm rich, but I haven't got a spare twenty thou lying about," Tom said. "I'll need at least half up front."

Rythian chewed on this for a while.

"I need to make a phone call," he said at last.

"Be my guest," said Tom, gesturing magnanimously.

Rythian slipped on his gloves and tottered over to the far corner of the room. He wasn't seeing quite straight, and his balance was off. He got out his phone and dialed.

 _"Hey,"_ Zylus said. _"What'sh up?"_

"Twenty thousand pounds is what's up," said Rythian.

Zylus sucked in a breath through his teeth. _"Jeshush Chrisht."_

"You're telling me," said Rythian. "Ideas?"

_"A few. I have a sphare kidney."_

"Don't joke."

 _"I'm not."_ There was a pause. _"There'sh a lot of shcienshe shit around here we can shell off. Maybe not in time, but if we take out shome kind of loan we should be able to pay it back._ _No,_ _Panda,_ _no bank heisht._ _Chrisht. Shorry. Anyway. If we get the money, can he get ush the shtuff before tomorrow?"_

Rythian turned to Tom, holding his phone away from his head.

"How soon can we have them?" he asked.

"Couple weeks?" Tom guessed.

"We need them by tomorrow," said Rythian.

"Then you're shit out of luck," said Tom. "Sorry, Sparky, I don't make the rules."

 _"Fuck,"_ Rythian cursed. He went back to the phone. "He says two weeks."

 _"Fuck,"_ said Zylus. _"I really should've thought about thish beforehand."_

"You think?" said Rythian, his teeth gritted.

 _"Why don't you jusht ashk him if he can get ush to Vegash without leaving a paper trail?"_ Zylus asked.

With a heavy sigh, Rythian turned back to Tom. "Can you get us to America without leaving a paper trail?" he asked dutifully.

"Oh, sure," said Tom. _"That's_ easy. I know a pilot, she's got her own plane and everything. Transatlantic'll cost you, but nowhere near twenty thou."

"How much?" Rythian asked.

"For seven of you, plus baggage? I dunno her rates exactly, but I'd put it at eight or nine-k. Won't be a comfy flight, though."

"Christ," Rythian muttered. He relayed the information to Zylus.

_"Perfect. That'sh barely more than I already shpent on ticketsh, I can get a refund and we're golden."_

"Right," Rythian sighed. "Bye." He hung up.

"So I'm guessing it'll be the flight, then," said Tom.

"Yes," said Rythian. "Thanks."

"Not a problem. Might cost you a bit extra with such short notice, but not terribly much. Anything else, Sparky? Still want to go for a siphon, knock the cost down a bit?"

"No," said Rythian. He hesitated, then came back and sat down. "Um . . . I also wanted to say . . . thank you. For . . . being good to me."

Tom's eyebrows lifted, and he blinked at Rythian a couple of times.

 _"Good_ to you? Civil, sure, but I'm not sure I've been particularly _good_ to you, Sparky."

"Compared to other people in your business?" Rythian said dryly.

"Ooh, yeah, fair enough," said Tom, wincing. "Well, you're welcome." He paused. "Don't s'pose I'll be seeing you again, then."

"I don't think so, no," said Rythian.

Tom sniffed once and leaned back in his chair. "Well, it's been a gas, Sparky. I'll miss you. I do love our banter, where I say nice things to you and then you get prickly with me. Nobody else does it quite like you."

"I . . . will probably miss you, too," Rythian admitted.

Tom pressed a hand to his heart and gave Rythian a gooey look. "Oh, Sparks, baby, don't, you'll get my hopes up."

It was probably just the marijuana that made him do it. Rythian took off his respirator, and cupped Tom's face in his hands, and kissed him on the mouth. His scraggly beard was rough against Rythian's chin, and he tasted mostly of weed and smoke, and he was a little heavier on the tongue that Rythian would have liked, but he kept his hands to himself and didn't make any weird noises, and if the kiss went on for over a minute uninterrupted, well, it only meant that Rythian was a good bit higher than he'd initially thought.

He did manage to break away, eventually, before anybody ended up in anyone else's lap, and he put his respirator back on to stop the sparks tickling the bottoms of his lungs. He was blushing tremendously, hot all over.

"Well shit, Sparky," Tom said faintly.

For a time, Rythian did not answer. He ran a hand back over his head, collecting himself.

"Bye," he said, and shot to his feet, and hurried out of the basement without a single glance back.


	8. New Tricks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shortly after Strife's first Board meeting, he goes to pick up his charge.

The man sitting across from Strife was not Parvis anymore.

He was gaunt and pale, and he had the fixed and staring smile of a mannequin. The manacles around his thin wrists were looking less and less unnecessary with every second that went by, the slow claw-flexing of his fingers more threat than fidget. There was something terribly wrong with his eyes.

Strife kept his face wooden and did not look at the track marks on the insides of Parvis's arms, the dimpled scars against his carotid arteries. He set his folder on the metal table in front of him and settled into the metal chair. He stared at the bridge of Parvis's nose, because his eyes, my God, his _eyes. . . ._

"Parvis," Strife said, businesslike. Parvis's smile did not change one iota. Strife cleared his throat and flipped open the folder. "So uh . . . what I got here, this is a little writ of _habeas corpus,_ meaning that you and me are leaving today, and you're gonna be staying in Solutions Tower for, uh, for the foreseeable future—"

"I know _you!"_ Parvis cried suddenly, leaning forward like a child who'd just solved a riddle. Strife had to resist the temptation to lean back.

"Uh, yeah," said Strife. "Good job. So—"

"You're William Strife," said Parvis. He was watching Strife entirely too closely, enraptured. "They told me you weren't coming back. They told me you forgot all about me."

"That's real great, Parvis, but—" Strife stopped himself. He narrowed his eyes, a premonition of misdeeds creeping up his spine. _"Who_ told you?"

"Oh, _them,"_ said Parvis, rolling his horrible eyes and gesturing with one restrained hand. He blew a raspberry. "They don't matter. _You're_ here now. It's been ages since I saw you."

"O- _kay,"_ said Strife, just barely keeping the squeak out of his voice. He busied himself with the paperwork so he wouldn't have to look at Parvis. "Yep, well, here I am. Now—"

"You let them _take_ me," Parvis said quietly, and there was slow poison in his words. Something ran up Strife's spine like a cold hand.

"Now—now _Parvis,"_ Strife warned, leveling a finger at him. He was not smiling now, staring Strife down with what could only be called _hunger._ "I was doing my best to keep you _alive._ Now, if you don't think that was the right decision, I can just walk right back outta here without you. I came to _get_ you outta the goodness of my heart, so I think I deserve a little _gratitude,_ hey?"

Parvis continued to stare at him. Strife swallowed again. Walking out was seeming like a better and better decision.

"No," Parvis mused. "No, I don't like it here. Take me away, Strifey. I want to go now." The grin came back, toothy and wide. "I've missed you terribly."

His fingers were doing obscene things to the arms of his chair. It failed to awaken anything in Strife but a skin-crawling revulsion.

"Yeah, uh-huh, same, _so,"_ said Strife. "What's gonna happen now is, a couple guys are gonna come in and let you outta that chair, and you're gonna come with me out to the helicopter, and we're gonna go home. You're not gonna make any sudden moves and—I gotta stress this, Parvis—you are _not_ gonna touch me. At all. You understand that?"

"Oh _yes,_ Strifey," Parvis breathed. "I yelled and yelled and you never came. They told me you weren't coming, only I didn't believe them. But here you are! Did you hear me yelling, Strifey?"

"No," Strife said shortly. He stood up and tucked the folder under his arm. He went to the door and rapped sharply on it three times.

"Oh, but you _must've,_ Strifey," Parvis said, pouting. "I yelled and yelled and yelled. They said you weren't coming. They said to stop yelling because you weren't coming."

"Well, Parvis, looks like they were wrong," said Strife. The door opened and he turned to the guard on the other side of it. "Hey, yeah, get him outta there." He jerked a thumb at Parvis.

"Yes, sir," said the guard, not daring to make eye-contact. She shuffled into the room and undid Parvis's restraints. She had a peculiar stance, as though trying to be as far away from him as possible. The moment his hands were free, he took her face and kissed her forehead.

 _"Mwah!_ Oh, thank you so much, nice lady," said Parvis. "When I can do all my cool tricks again, I'll show them to you, because you were nice to me."

The guard muttered something and hurried back to the door, scrubbing at her forehead like it had been spattered with acid. Parvis got up, shaky and unsteady. Strife almost went to him, but regained himself at the last moment.

"Hey, c'mon, hurry up," he snapped. "We don't have all day."

"I'm hungry, Strifey," Parvis whined, pouting at him. "Take me somewhere with food. They didn't feed me _anything_ here, anything at _all,_ and I'm going to _die_ if I don't eat something."

"Yeah, fine, okay, just get your butt in _motion_ and you can eat back at Solutions Tower."

Parvis considered this for a moment, then brightened. "Okay!" he chirped. He tottered over to Strife and leaned up against him like a particularly stupid cat. Strife shoved him off.

"What'd I tell you about—"

Parvis caught him by the wrist, and the touch made Strife's skin crawl. That mannequin smile was back on Parvis's face, his eyes (his eyes, his _eyes)_ wide and empty.

"I've missed you _terribly,"_ he said, his voice a low purr. Strife couldn't feel his fingertips.

"Yeah, you said, okay, I missed you too, now can we _please—"_

"Why didn't you come get me, Strifey?" Parvis asked. "Is it because you don't love me anymore?"

"Parvis, quit it, we're on a time crunch here, hey?"

"Timmmmme _crunch,"_ said Parvis, relishing the words entirely too much for Strife's liking. He laughed. "You're so silly, Strifey."

"Let go of me, Parvis," Strife said coldly.

"Oh, no, but then you'll go and leave me here," said Parvis, utterly innocent. "I don't want you to leave me again. I don't want to be here anymore. Let's go home, Strifey, _can_ we?"

Strife took a deep breath through his nose and let it out again. The numbness was creeping down his fingers, millimeter by millimeter.

"Sure, Parvis," he said. "We can go home right now. This nice guard lady is gonna help you out to the helicopter, _isn't_ she?"

The guard in question stiffened, looking between Parvis and Strife in rabbity panic. She edged up to Parvis and extended a hand.

"Sir," she said stiffly.

"Oh, how _lovely,"_ Parvis effused. He let go of Strife's hand and languished against the guard, leaving her to practically carry him to the elevator. "You're so nice to me, Strifey. I _did_ miss you terribly."

"You said," said Strife, not looking at him. The paper folder was sticking to his hand, damp with sweat.

They made it out of the building without incident, but the moment they stepped outdoors Parvis gasped like a child on Christmas and slapped Strife repeatedly in the arm.

"Oh, _Strifey!_ Strifey, look, look!" he cried, elated. "There's a _sky_ up there! I forgot about skies!"

Something ripped out of Strife then, like the pin from a grenade. The folder crumpled in his hand. His teeth ached, and the autumn air was ice cold in his lungs.

"Give him," he ordered the guard, snapping his fingers.

"S-sir?" she stammered.

 _"Give_ him to _me,"_ Strife growled, glaring at her. She hastily foisted Parvis into his arms. He slapped the folder against her chest and left her to catch it. "Now get lost."

Still sputtering obsequiously, she hurried back into the building. Strife put his arm around Parvis's waist and hauled him off. Parvis draped an arm across Strife's shoulders and leaned heavily on him. His skin was cold. It did not warm with time.

"I wish I could show you all my neat tricks, Strifey," Parvis said. His breath was hot against Strife's neck. "You'd love them oh so very much. I've got _all_ the neat tricks, now. But they took them away again." He laughed suddenly and brightly. "There was _ever_ so much blood!"

Strife clenched his jaw and took Parvis back to the limousine that had brought him here, folded him into the back seat like an inflatable doll and slipped in after him. He slammed the door.

"Drive," he barked.

"Yes, sir," said his driver. The limo pulled smoothly out of the YogLabs parking lot, wafting warm air and that new-car smell over Strife.

Parvis promptly deposited himself in Strife's lap and started playing with his hair. Strife was an inch away from shoving him off when Parvis kissed him.

He'd always been a _disgustingly_ good kisser. Strife enjoyed it for a couple minutes, then shoved him off anyway.

"You trying to bankrupt me or something, Parvis?" he demanded, breathless. "All the people I gotta keep bribing to keep their mouths shut 'cause you can't keep it in your pants."

Parvis grinned at him, vacant and wide-eyed _._

"I can't wait, Strifey. I missed you terribly. I want you right now. Right _now,_ Strifey."

 _"God_ you're such a brat," Strife said, rolling his eyes.

Parvis leapt upon him, snarling and feral. His hands closed around Strife's throat and dug fingernails into the back of his neck.

 _"Right now,"_ he growled. Strife managed to wrestle him off before he choked him out completely, though Parvis's fingernails carved ruts into his neck.

"Jesus _Christ_ Parvis!" he cried. "What the hell is _wrong_ with you?"

On the instant, Parvis went meek in his hands. He kissed Strife's knuckles, one hand and then the other, over and over.

"Don't be angry, Strifey," he murmured between kisses. "I missed you. I missed you so much. I thought about you all the time. I screamed and screamed. I did miss you terribly. You won't make me go on missing you, will you, Strifey? Only I'll die. I'll _die_ if I can't have you. I don't want to die, Strifey. You're not going to make me die, are you?"

"No, I'm—Parvis just—shut your gorgeous little mouth, all right?" he said irritably. The words were ill-fitting, the wrong equation to solve the problem.

Parvis grinned at Strife and climbed back into his lap. He started kissing the scratches he'd left on Strife's neck, lingering and sweet.

"I can't wait to show you all my tricks, Strifey," he breathed. "They're so good. They're _so_ good."

Strife shut his eyes and focused on not throwing up.

* * *

 

Kirin was drinking coffee when Strife burst into his office in a towering rage.

"What the fuck did you people _do_ to him?" he snarled, slamming his hands down on Kirin's desk.

Kirin smiled indulgently at him.

"I assume you're talking about Alex?"

"Parvis," Strife spat. _"Answer me."_

"Please sit down, Strife. Do you want some coffee?"

"I'm not here for a goddamn _meeting,_ Kirin!"

"Yes you are," Kirin told him. "Sit down, William. Then I'll talk to you about Mr. Parvis."

Strife had half a mind to throw Kirin straight through the plate glass window behind his desk. Most of the reason he didn't was because he wasn't sure he could actually lift him, and the rest was because he knew the tactic Kirin was using like the back of his hand. This was a Xephos-trick, right down to the bone, and the fact that Kirin had stolen it from a dead man did nothing to quell Strife's rage. He couldn't count the number of times Xephos had given him that little smile and refused to parley until Strife made some small, obedient concession. It was practically trained into him by now. Shaking with suppressed fury, he sank into the chair in front of Kirin's desk.

"There you go," said Kirin, with that same indulgent smile. "Now. What did you want to know about Mr. Parvis?"

"I want to know what you people _did_ to him," Strife snarled.

Kirin waved a hand. "I personally had nothing to do with that. The person to ask about _that_ is, unfortunately, about six feet underground right now. All we could find of him, anyway."

Strife ground his teeth, wondering how bad of an idea it would be to smash Kirin's smug face into his desk.

"Then _find_ me somebody who _was_ involved," he growled.

"I don't see why you'd need my help for that," said Kirin. "It should be _someone_ over in Medical. Why don't you ask Ridge if he knows who to ask? I'll forgive you if you've forgotten it's his department, he so rarely _does_ anything."

"Don't you patronize me."

"Patronize, Strife? Me? I'm sorry, I'm just _very_ busy, you know how it is. I really don't have time for your . . . personal life. You have my condolences, though! I'm sure it's been very difficult for you."

"Shut up," Strife snapped. He got to his feet, glowering at Kirin. "Thanks for _nothing."_

"You're welcome," Kirin said pleasantly. Strife stormed out before the urge to resort to violence became overwhelming.

* * *

 

Eight days later, Ridge invited him over for drinks and a chat. Strife accepted unthinkingly, glad of any excuse to get out of Solutions Tower for a few hours. Parvis had been haunting the place like a ghost, and avoiding him was becoming increasingly difficult. The man seemed utterly unable to take a hint. He spoke almost constantly of his _new tricks_ that were ever more forthcoming.

Ridge lived in a replica townhouse in Sea Mills, a swanky neighborhood to the northwest of downtown Bristol. It was large, but tasteful, and even had a lawn. There were cars parked out front, so shiny they must never have been driven at all. Strife had his driver drop him at the front and then sent him away.

"I'll call if I need you," he said shortly. "I expect you back in thirty minutes after I call, no matter _what_ time of night it is. You got that?"

"Yes, sir," said the driver.

"Good," said Strife. He turned and walked up to the door, ringing the bell. His driver pulled away, gravel crunching under the car's tires.

After about ten seconds, a rather aged butler opened the door for him and smiled.

"Ah, Mr. Strife. Please, come in. Mr. Ridge is waiting for you upstairs. Shall I show you to him?"

"Yeah, whatever, Jeeves," said Strife. He shrugged out of his coat and foisted it upon the butler, taking in his surroundings.

The interior of the house was as opulent as the exterior, and surprisingly tasteful. Strife gathered from this that Ridge had not personally had anything to do with the decorating. The place _reeked_ of old money, from the portraits on the walls to the real fire burning in the fireplace to the butler, buttling along despite Strife's overt rudeness.

"This way, sir, if you please," said the butler, making for a wide, sweeping staircase with a gold-limned banister. Strife followed along, estimating the total value of the house and all its trimmings. The number was rapidly approaching seven figures.

The butler, to his credit, did not attempt to make conversation, apparently socially apt enough to realize that Strife was not in the mood to talk to staff. He led Strife to a large, brightly-lit room, with gold wallpaper and plush yellow carpet, arrayed with furniture of the highest quality. Ridge was lounging in a large armchair, legs crossed, a bottle of very fine brandy and two highball glasses set out on a small table.

"Hey, there's the man of the hour!" he said, rising. He strode over and shook Strife's hand heartily. The butler evanesced quietly behind them. "Come on in, sit down. You want a drink?"

"I wouldn't say no," said Strife. He settled into another armchair and Ridge poured out a fair measure of brandy into both glasses, then raised one to Strife.

"Here's to better business connections," he said, grinning.

"Yeah, okay," said Strife. He clinked his glass against Ridge's and drank. It really was _very_ fine brandy. "You wanna tell me what this is about?"

"Oh, _puh._ It's not _about_ anything. I'm bored, you're interesting, end of story."

"Great story," Strife said flatly.

"Aw, c'mon, don't be like that," said Ridge. "Kirin and Lying have their little genderweird club, I figured why not you and me spend some quality time together?"

"Not Hulmes?"

"Nobody wants to hang out with Hulmes, c'mon, have you _seen_ the guy? He's like a walking infomercial."

Strife snorted. He had another sip of brandy.

"Okay, so what, this is just social?"

"Mostly, mostly. Might talk a _little_ business, once I think you're drunk enough but before I bust out the hard drugs. You look like a coke kinda guy, you a coke kinda guy?"

 _"I_ am a _businessman,"_ Strife said. After a slight pause, he added, "Of course I'm a coke kinda guy."

Ridge grinned and raised his glass to him again. "See, _that's_ the kinda thing I like to hear. _Nobody_ else on that damn board has _any_ sense of humor. Stuffed shirts, all of 'em."

"Humor, right," said Strife. He had another sip of brandy.

The next hour passed pleasantly enough. Although Ridge was young, he was intelligent, and his sense of humor fell fairly close in line with Strife's, what was left of it. He was liberal with the brandy, and by the time Strife recognized that the man was _trying_ to get him drunk, he wasn't really in a state to mind much.

"Heard you picked up one of our old guinea pigs," Ridge said at last, regarding him coyly over his glass of brandy.

"Who told you that?" Strife snapped, bristling.

"Well, you know, the people who work for me?" Ridge said, waving a hand. "Whose _job_ it is to tell me that kinda thing? They told me. Mostly 'cause that big production you put on when we gave you this job really made me wonder about this Parvis guy. Parvis _kid._ And oh, _boy_ did we fuck him up."

Strife half got out of his chair, and Ridge waved a hand at him, making a face.

"Okay, okay, calm down. _Jeez._ You're so high-strung. Have another drink, c'mon, it's all my treat."

 _"What_ did you do to him?" Strife uttered through gritted teeth. His hand was clenched so hard on the glass it had popped his knuckles.

 _"I_ didn't do _anything_ to him," said Ridge. "Wasn't my idea. Sort of, y'know, _inherited_ the project from ol' Llewellyn. He didn't really mention where the kid came from. If I'd known he was yours, I would've sent him back lickety-split."

"No you wouldn't," said Strife.

"Nah, I probably wouldn't," Ridge admitted, grinning. "But hey, it was a crucial stage and he was already _totally_ nuts by then."

"Parvis isn't—" Strife began, and stopped. Ridge shook his head.

"Look, buddy, you can try and delude yourself all you want, but anybody who spends ten _seconds_ in a room with that kid knows he's lost it."

Strife poured himself another brandy and drank it. The bottle was running somewhat low.

"So what happened to him?" he asked, his rage and his voice numbed by the alcohol.

"Where to _start,"_ said Ridge, rolling his eyes. "They stuck a whole _bunch_ of stuff in him. A cocktail of fuck-up. Y'know usually when people get exposed to mutagens, it takes 'em a couple years to freakify. Parvis? Two _weeks._ They fucked. Him. _Up."_

"Jesus," Strife muttered, as all of this failed to sink in.

"So I _gotta_ ask: what'd you do with him? After you took him out from under our _prying_ eyes."

"I took him home," Strife said, quite without thinking.

Ridge burst out laughing.

"Oh my God!" he cried. "Oh my God, you poor stupid idiot. You got _that thing_ living in your _house?"_

"Solutions Tower," said Strife. Ridge didn't need to know that Strife had a bedroom on the penthouse level. It kept things tidy, or at least it _had._

"Man oh _man,_ you really fucked that one up," said Ridge, shaking his head.

"Hey, how was _I_ supposed to know you people made him a friggin' nutcase?" Strife snapped, slowly catching on that he was being patronized and insulted. It was awfully difficult to think, with so much brandy in him.

 _"My_ people just ran cleanup," said Ridge. _"Xephos's_ people made him a freak."

"Which people?" said Strife.

"How should I know? Not my department. But hey, you could probably find somebody who knows, if you actually look for a couple seconds. Y'know, do some good old-fashioned legwork for yourself, like you _weren't_ God's gift to money."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"Hey, they can't all be fucking gems," Ridge said, pouting.

"There's gotta be four hundred people in Section L," Strife said. "I'm not combing through all of them to find somebody who knows what happened."

"Okay, _fine,_ if you're gonna be a baby about it, I guess I can give you a hint," said Ridge.

"You're goddamn _insufferable,"_ Strife snapped.

Grinning, Ridge tossed his head with an elegant flick of his hand, flipping long hair he didn't have over his shoulder.

"Why, Will, I'm flattered."

Strife went totally cold.

"Don't call me that," he said, his voice flat.

"Aw, c'mon, we're all buddies here. Hey, you can call me _Steve_ _n_ if you want, that'll be—"

"Don't," Strife said quietly, "call me that."

Ridge watched him for a moment, calculating. He shrugged.

"Okay," he said. "The folks you want to talk to in Section L are a pair of weirdos. Not freaks, just weirdos. They were pretty damn close to Xeph, so they probably know what he was doing."

"Names?" said Strife, all-business despite his drunkenness.

"Ugh, jeez, they're both mouthfuls," said Ridge, rolling his eyes. "Just ask for _G and R._ People'll probably know who you mean."

Strife drained the last of his brandy and put the glass down.

"Thanks so much for all your help," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He called his driver, managing not to slur any words through stringent practice.

"Going home already?" Ridge said playfully, when the call was over. "But the night is so young!"

"You're not my type," said Strife.

"Not yet," said Ridge. "Gimme a couple months."

"Yeah, putting more time on your clock isn't gonna help your case," said Strife, once again failing to think before he opened his mouth.

Ridge's face lit up in perverse delight.

"Oh, you're _sick,"_ he said, gleeful. "Man, I'm gonna be milking this one for _years."_

"You can try," said Strife. "You're not gonna find anything illegal."

 _"_ _Illegal_ _?_ Who said anything about _illegal_ _?"_ said Ridge. "This is _hilarious!"_

"Y'know, _Steven_ _,_ I think it's gonna get a lot less funny when I tell my pet freak how much of a goddamn nuisance you are," Strife sneered. "He's _real_ attached to me."

Ridge's smile froze in place, then morphed into a snarl. He got to his feet, suddenly much less assured and much more unsteady.

"That fucking _thing_ comes within fifty yards of me and I'm gonna be hanging its fucking head on my wall," he said.

Strife smiled at him, tightly. "Well then, I guess you got nothing to worry about," he said. "It'll sure solve one of _my_ problems. Maybe two, depending on how quick your people are on the trigger and what kind of freak Powers Parvis is running around with."

Ridge stood there fuming and sputtering, and Strife took his leave. He waited on the doorstep for his driver. He focused very hard on walking a straight line to the limo when it pulled up.

"Home," he said shortly, getting into the back of the limo and slamming the door.

"Yes, sir," said the driver.

* * *

 

Parvis was waiting for him, up in the penthouse, up in the bed. The guards had not been outside the door, but Strife hadn't noticed until he came into the room. He stopped on the threshold, drunk and numb and growing steadily, steadily sicker. He could not look away. He could not make himself stop seeing.

Grinning and languorous, Parvis got up out of the bed and slunk over to Strife, draped himself against the other man and whispered in his ear, rutting against him in slow and animal lust.

"My tricks're back, Strifey," he said, far more drunk on Power than Strife was on brandy. "Oh, I've got so much to show you."

Strife's stomach gave out and he had to shove Parvis away and throw up on the floor.

There was just _so much blood. . . ._


	9. Old Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A story in four parts.

Strife came to visit two months after Xephos's wife left him. He figured that was long enough to wait, and by then Xephos would have worn out enough on his freak of a child to be susceptible to reason.

"Will," Xephos said, opening the door to him. "Do come in, sit down. Can I get you something to drink?"

Strife came in and settled into one of Xephos's living room chairs. The whole house looked as threadbare as Xephos himself, grey and stretched thin.

"Sure, yeah, water's fine," said Strife. He did not miss the slight flinch from Xephos at the word _water._

"I hope you won't mind if I indulge in something a bit stronger," Xephos said, puttering off to the kitchen.

"Your house," Strife said, shrugging.

Xephos returned with a glass of water for Strife and a cup of tea for himself. _A bit stronger_ indeed.

"How uh . . . so how're you holding up?" Strife asked, eyeing Xephos over.

"Poorly enough that I let you in," Xephos said dryly, both delicate hands wrapped around his cup of tea.

"Well gee, Elly, I don't know whether to be more offended or worried," Strife said.

"I'd prefer you were neither."

"Yeah, sorry, you already let me in."

Xephos sighed and rubbed his temple with two fingers. "I assume you want something," he said.

"Yeah," said Strife. "To help."

Xephos let out a short guffaw of disbelief. _"Help,_ Will? Since when? Because last I checked, the only person you had _any_ interest in helping was yourself."

"I don't have too many friends, Elly," Strife said, his voice low.

"No, you really don't," Xephos said. "What do you _want,_ William? Because if you've come here to waste my time, I'd much prefer you left again as soon as possible."

"I didn't come to waste anybody's time," said Strife. "I figured you could use some backup."

"Really? Is this a fight, now? Am I engaged in combat, Will?"

"Raising a kid on your own is _hard,"_ said Strife, watching Xephos closely. "Much less living with a freak."

Xephos went very still for the space of three heartbeats. He sipped his tea.

"He has been . . . difficult," he admitted. "I'm working on it."

 _"Working_ on it? Working on _what,_ exactly?"

Xephos opened his mouth to answer when a door hinge creaked down the corridor. There was a tapping of small, bare feet, and a moment later, a little waif of a child appeared in the spilled light from the living room. He had Xephos's dark hair and delicate bone structure, but had inherited his mother's bright green eyes and cherubic lips. He couldn't have been older than seven. He saw Strife and froze, regarding him with intense suspicion.

"And _there_ is the demon in question," Xephos sighed, indulgent. "Come here, Liam. This is Mr. Strife. He's an old friend from university."

The child hesitated, looking between Strife and Xephos.

 _"Liam,"_ Xephos warned, sharp. The child flinched, then hurried to Xephos's side. Xephos put a hand on his head and smiled. "Say hello to Mr. Strife, Liam."

"'lo," the child mumbled. Strife felt his lip curling.

"Yeah, real pleasure, now you can send him back where he came from," Strife said.

"He doesn't bite _much,_ Will," Xephos said, his eyes glittering. "Honestly he's quite docile, provided you don't put your fingers near his mouth, ahah."

Strife stared at the child, leaning away slowly.

"Kidding, Will," Xephos said. "I was kidding."

"Yeah, well I wasn't," said Strife. "I didn't come here to talk to your—your—"

"My son," Xephos said quietly.

"Whatever," said Strife. "I'm talking to _you,_ and I'm not doing it with _that_ in the room."

Xephos's hands both clenched. The child flinched.

"Please refrain from referring to Liam as though he is an object," Xephos said. "I'm afraid he doesn't _like_ it. Liam's expressions of displeasure tend to be fairly . . . _permanent,_ if you understand my meaning."

"Didn't," the child whispered, his eyes lowered.

"Yes you did, Liam, and it's only by the grace of God that the family didn't press charges. Go back to bed, please, so that Mr. Strife and I can talk."

"Y'sir," the child mumbled. Xephos tugged him in close and kissed his forehead.

"Sweet dreams. I love you," he said.

"Love you," the child whispered, like an echo, and slunk back to his room. The hinge squealed again as he shut the door behind him. Xephos turned back to Strife, a pained look on his face.

"He took issue with a classmate's treatment of a stray cat," Xephos explained. "Drowned her behind the swings, I believe. It was her bad luck that it had rained earlier in the day. Fortunately some other children saw and got help, and the girl was resuscitated in time. Needless to say, he is no longer attending that particular school. He's a bright child, though, and he should be able to catch up even if he has to take a full year off for us to get him fixed."

"Elly, listen," said Strife, leaning forward and lacing his fingers together. "I'm gonna be blunt with you."

"That's new," Xephos drawled, rolling his eyes.

"You want me to take that freak out back and shoot it, I'll do it. Tonight, if you want."

For thirty seconds, there was only the sound of breathing. Xephos's hand was clenched white-knuckled on his cup of tea.

"Get up," he said quietly, "and get out of my house."

"I _knew_ you'd do this. I _knew_ you'd—"

"Get up," Xephos repeated, his voice shaking, "and get _out_ of my house."

"It's a _freak,_ Elly. It's not different just because it has half your genes! God's sake, it tried to _murder_ a child!"

 _"He_ is my _son!"_ Xephos snarled, his eyes alight with righteous fury.

"No it's not!" Strife retorted. "No, Elly, it's _not._ Your _son's_ gone!"

"No," said Xephos. "No, he isn't. I'm going to get him back. I haven't quite worked out how, yet, but I will figure it out."

"Elly, _listen_ to me," Strife said. "Your kid's dead. He's _gone._ Now you can keep dragging his corpse around as long as you want, trying to wake it up, but all it's gonna do is rot you. It's already making you soft, look at you! Since when do you wanna _cure_ freaks?"

"Since I had a vested interest in doing so," Xephos snapped. "I want my _son_ back."

"You never _had_ a son! It was _always_ gonna be like this, Elly! It was _always_ gonna be a freak! Christ, did you even _tell_ Izzy? Did she know what you were before she married you, or did you spring that one on her along with the kid turning out to be a monster? How the hell did you think you were gonna get away with this? The kid was _always_ gonna be a freak, Elly, because _that's what happens when freaks have kids!"_

The cup of tea shattered in Xephos's hand, cutting deep slices into his flesh. As quickly as the blood rolled out and dripped onto the carpet, the cuts started to knit themselves back together again.

"Get. Out," Xephos said, his voice low and thick with rage.

Strife stood up.

"When you finally get tired of lugging that thing around," Strife said, gesturing to the corridor, "you come find me. When you get used to the fact that your kid's dead, you come find me, and hey. I'll even skip the _I told you so's,_ because I feel bad for you."

"Get _o_ _ut,"_ Xephos repeated. His face had gone white, his bloodied hand shaking with suppressed tension.

"Fine," Strife spat. He stalked out, slamming the door behind him.

Once he was back in the car, he took the gun out of his waistband and stuffed it in the glove compartment for safekeeping.

* * *

 

Liam held very still when Dad came into his room, breathing slow and careful, like he was asleep. Dad sat down on the edge of his bed and touched his hair.

"Liam," he said quietly. "I know you haven't fallen asleep quite that quickly."

Defeated, Liam sat up. He kept his eyes down and his mouth shut, although his hands were clenched on his sheets.

"I presume you heard the conversation I just had with Mr. Strife?"

Liam nodded, tears pricking at his eyes. He swallowed and blinked them back. Dad put an arm around his shoulders and squeezed him.

"I want you to know that Mr. Strife is by no means going to hurt you," Dad said. "Nor is anyone. Anyone who wants to hurt you will have to go through _me._ You realize that's a rather difficult task, don't you?"

He nodded again. Dad kissed his hair.

"We are going to fix this, Liam," Dad said softly, rubbing Liam's arm.

"Going to fix _me,"_ Liam whispered, bitter.

"Yes," said Dad.

"'M not broken."

"Yes, Liam, you are," said Dad. "Normal people don't drown their classmates."

"I _didn't."_

"Liam, I have grown very tired of that particular lie," Dad said coldly. "You will not tell it again."

"I _didn't!"_ Liam repeated. "I didn't hurt her, I didn't do anything to her! I got mad and—and something else happened! Somebody else hurt her. I tried to help. I tried to _help,_ Dad!"

Dad's hand clutched iron-tight around Liam's arm, and Liam yelped. Dad stood up and dragged Liam out of bed, out into the corridor and to the bathroom. He forced Liam down onto the closed lid of the toilet and snatched up the bar of soap from next to the sink. Liam's arm was bruising, aching right down to the bone. Dad brandished the bar of soap in front of Liam's nose, his face hard and angry.

"I will give you one more chance to tell me the truth," Dad said quietly. "And if you fail to do so, you will be punished. I do not _like_ being lied to, Liam. I will not put up with it."

"Dad, please—" Liam begged, tears dripping down his face while his sinuses stuffed up. Dad shook him and he flinched.

"I have done you the _very_ great courtesy of keeping you out of legal trouble," Dad said. "I have also sent Mr. Strife away even though he was quite set on putting a bullet through your brain. I think the very _least_ I deserve from you is a bit of _honesty."_

Liam sniffled, trembling and sick, scarcely able to breathe. His fingers were going numb because Dad's hand was so tight on his arm.

"Now," Dad said. _"Did_ you hurt that girl, Liam?"

He looked at the bar of soap. He looked at Dad's face, grim. He swallowed.

"No," he whispered.

Dad grabbed him by the jaw and stuck a finger between his teeth, prying his mouth open. Liam thrashed, screaming, crying, terrified—

_He doesn't bite_ _ much _ _,_ _provided_ _you keep your fingers away from—_

Liam bit down as hard as he could.

Dad yelped like a kicked dog and jerked his hand away. Something hot and thick sprayed Liam's face, filled his mouth with the bitter taste of copper. He spat and sputtered, fell off the toilet and scrambled back against the wall, cowering. Dad staggered away, clutching at his hand. Vibrant red blood was pouring from the stump of his first finger, pattering onto the floor like gentle rain.

Dad looked up at Liam, his hair mussed, his glasses askew. Liam shrank back, his heart hammering in his chest. Dad's face was like a thunderstorm. Liam had never seen him so angry, so hotly furious. Dad started for him and Liam cried out again, scrambled to get away, but Dad caught him before he got two inches, dragged him down the hallway by his hair and threw him into his room. The door slammed hard enough to make the house shake. Liam crawled under the bed, shaking and whimpering and crying. He heard Dad stomp away down the corridor, heard him cursing, heard dishes smashing, felt the house trembling with the force of his rage.

He wondered how long it would be before Dad called Mr. Strife back to shoot him. He curled up under his bed and sobbed uncontrollably.

* * *

 

Xephos stood in the ruins of the kitchen, panting. He'd managed to calm down, finally, although it had taken so long that the stump of his finger had skinned over. He stared down at his bloodied hand, his rage cooling slowly, pinging like sheet metal.

Thank God the neighbors had gotten used to Liam's screaming by now. It would be unbearable to have to explain this to them, explain why there was new pink skin underneath the fresh blood. He had a horrible thought, sickening, and tottered back to the bathroom with a gulp of dread like ice water in his stomach.

Xephos found his severed finger in a puddle of blood by the toilet. There was blood everywhere in here, sprayed on the walls and the sink, dripped onto the floor. The finger, thankfully, did not appear to be growing anything back—its base was red and stringy, an oval of bone just visible under the blood. Liam had bitten through the middle knuckle, taking off a good two inches of finger. Xephos briefly considered putting it in a box and keeping it, just to see if it did anything later, but the odds of it simply rotting were fairly high, and besides, it would be a devil to explain. Plus, if it hadn't grown anything yet, it probably wasn't going to.

"Must need a metabolism attached," Xephos mused, examining the digit with an odd sort of detachment. Perhaps he would get around to being traumatized later. He was still holding out hope that his . . . _special traits_ would allow him to regrow the finger, in time.

In the end, he put the finger in a plastic bag and sealed it. He had considered putting it through the blender so no hypothetical dumpster-diver would have reason to call the police, but that was a bit too gruesome even for Xephos. The thought of it gave him phantom pains atop the dislocated numbness where the finger had been.

He spent some time examining the wound, checking for signs of infection—but then, it had only been an hour, at most, so what was he hoping to see? The wound was fairly clean, and he didn't suspect Liam was _actually_ rabid, much as he might act like it sometimes. Xephos washed the blood off his hand, showered, changed clothes, and then got down to the unpleasant business of cleaning up.

There was rather a lot of cleaning up to be done, between the blood and the broken dishes. He also took a few minutes to devise a way to keep Liam from opening his door and sneaking out, which ended up being an extension cord tied taut between Liam's doorknob and that of the closet across the corridor. A highly temporary solution, but he'd figure out a better one later. In the mean time, he just had to hope that Liam didn't decide to go out the window. From the sounds of quiet sobbing, though, it didn't seem like he was planning on going anywhere anytime soon. Xephos would just have to keep an ear out. The time you had to worry about Liam was when he _stopped_ making noise.

By the time Xephos had gotten everything reasonably clean, it was nearly midnight. He sank into the armchair in the front room, fatigued both physically and emotionally. He toyed with the house's cordless phone for a time, turning it in his uninjured hand while staring into space.

"Hello, Izzy," he mumbled to himself. "Yes, I know you said you never wanted to hear from me again, but I'm afraid our son has just bitten off my finger. Yes yes, _my_ son, I'm aware. I don't suppose you could keep him for a time whilst I work my way about to not _killing him_ _."_

His fist clenched on the phone, and then he sighed, rubbing his temple.

"No, I didn't think so," he said. He put the phone on the coffee table and lowered his head into his hands.

After a few minutes, he picked the phone back up started fooling with it again.

"Yes, hello Will?" he practiced, his eyes distant. "Remember how you offered to murder my son? Well, I'm having second thoughts about turning you down. You should see what the little devil's done this time. No, oddly enough, it's nothing to do with his Powers, or at least not directly. What do I mean, _not directly?_ Well you see, he's never bitten off my finger _before. . . ."_

He continued to consider, turning the phone over, pressing it against his leg to slide it up through his fingers, turning it over, sliding it up. . . .

Finally, he made a call.

 _"H_ _u_ _llo?"_ The voice on the other end was so thick with sleep it was nearly unintelligible.

"Honeydew, it's me," said Xephos.

"Oh, fuck, what's gone tits-up now?" Honeydew sighed.

Xephos managed a small smile.

"How are you with children, friend?" he asked. "I've got one I can't keep at the moment."

"Hang on, is this _your_ kid, or somebody else's? 'Cause I'm not takin' somebody else's kid off you, God only knows where you'd've got it from."

"My kid, Honeydew," Xephos said.

"How come?" Honeydew asked.

Xephos sighed through his nose. "Liam is . . . having some issues. I had hoped that perhaps you being of his . . . ilk, you would be better equipped to handle him than others."

"Look, Xeph, not that I ain't up for it, but, er . . . what the fuck's happened?"

Xephos wrestled with himself for a moment before answering. If Honeydew was going to look after the child, he'd have to find out sooner or later.

"He bit off my finger," Xephos said.

"Holy _shit!"_ Honeydew cried. "Where the fuck are you? Are you in hospital? D'you need me to come get the little fella, or is he—"

"I'm at home," Xephos said. "You may recall that I don't bleed quite so much as other people."

"Oh. Oh, yeah, right. I uh . . . might've forgot that. But then hang on, why d'you need me to look after Liam?"

"Because, Honeydew, I am having a very difficult time not breaking the little bastard's _legs,"_ Xephos snarled.

There were five long seconds of silence.

"Yeah, all right," said Honeydew, his voice too light, too casual. "I'll come over right now, yeah? Come and uh, take Liam off your hands."

"Thank you, friend," said Xephos. "It should only be for a few days."

"Right, right, yeah, few days, gotcha," said Honeydew, still in that highly suspect tone.

"Honeydew," Xephos said sternly. "If you fail to _return_ my child to me at the end of that time period, I will, to put it quite bluntly, nail you to the wall."

"Er . . . legally speaking or. . . ?"

"See in you a few minutes, friend," Xephos said, and hung up.

* * *

 

Xephos looked as bad as Honeydew had ever seen him, and he'd seen him during the final years of a double-major PhD with an infant child squalling him awake at two in the morning every night. Xephos opened the door for him wordlessly, and Honeydew stumped inside. He could not help but peer at Xephos's hands. Sure enough, the first finger on his left hand stopped abruptly at the first knuckle, capped with shiny pink skin.

"So, er," said Honeydew, prying his eyes off Xephos's hand. "Where is he?"

"In his room," said Xephos. "I'll send some clothes along tomorrow, we needn't worry about trying to get him to pack."

"All right," said Honeydew. "If you think that's best."

Xephos nodded, then turned and shuffled back into the house. Honeydew followed. There was an extension cord firmly roping together two doors in the corridor, which Xephos spent some time clumsily undoing. He opened the door on the right and waved Honeydew inside.

"Best of luck," he said.

"You're sure you don't want to, like . . . I dunno, say anything?" Honeydew suggested.

"There is very little I could say to that boy that would not be highly damaging to his already considerably fragile psyche," Xephos said dryly. "Thank you again for looking after him, Honeydew. I daresay I shall be recovered enough to take him back in a few days."

Honeydew shifted, uncomfortable, and shrugged, letting his hands drop back against his thighs with a slap.

"Eh," he said.

Xephos presented the room to him again, and Honeydew edged inside.

It was a far more cluttered room than Honeydew would have suspected. Liam must have been a regular magpie, collecting everything shiny that crossed his path. There was a multitude of colored glass bottles, a whole pile of tinsel saved from several Christmases past, a small microscope, towers of books, posters of sea creatures and oceanic diagrams. Someone had begun a mural of some kind of shark above the bed, exhibiting a great deal of enthusiasm and a surprising amount of artistry. Bits of metal, from pendants to charms to zipper pulls, were arranged semi-neatly on the dresser. There was a whole grid of earrings along with them, none matching. There were pens and pencils and markers strewn everywhere across the floor, and Liam evidently had very little regard for where any of his clothes ended up, but despite this the room was not exactly _messy._ There was a sort of esoteric order to it, and Honeydew would have bet money that the boy could find anything you asked him for in a space of ten seconds.

There were faint sniffles coming from under the bed. Honeydew glanced back to see Xephos still standing in the doorway, supervising. He crept forward and took a knee next to the bed. It was quite dark underneath, such that he could only make out faint silhouettes, and nothing that looked human.

"Hullo there," he said, keeping his voice as sweet and non-threatening as possible. "Liam, yeah? Your dad's asked me to, er, to look after you for a bit! We'll have you come stay at my place while—while all this gets cleared up. Don't that sound nice? A bit of a vacation from Dad?"

There was a slightly longer sniffle, followed by a period of silence. Something under the bed moved.

"Yeah, that's right, I'm not gonna hurt ya," Honeydew assured him. "Come on, c'mere little fella, it's all right—"

"For God's sake, Honeydew, he's not a _dog,"_ Xephos said, exasperated.

"Oy, I'm doin' my f _fff—_ fuppin' best here, cut me a break," Honeydew retorted, only narrowly avoiding cursing in front of the child. He turned back to the space under the bed. "Come on, Liam! Come an' say hi to your Uncle Simon."

Again, there was a stir of movement. A child slunk into view, and Honeydew let out a breath of relief to see that he looked, on the surface, generally human. His eyes were red and his face blotchy from crying. There was blood on his cheeks and lips and chin.

 _"Ohhhh_ dear," Honeydew said, just barely restraining himself from a more vehement exclamation. "Right, well, maybe first thing's to get you er, cleaned up a bit, yeah?"

Liam froze like a rabbit, going tense all over.

"Oh _do_ get on with it, Honeydew," Xephos said.

"Ignore 'im," Honeydew whispered to Liam, cocking a thumb at Xephos. "He's just a bit grumpy. Here, have you eaten? Why don't we go and get you somethin' to eat. When's the last time Dad let you have a milkshake, then?"

Liam continued to stare at him, completely unswayed. Honeydew made a face and scratched the back of his head.

"Er, listen," he said, heat rising to his cheeks. "I'm no fuppin' good at this, and I ain't slept too much, and I'd really appreciate it, like, if you'd come out from under there."

Liam's eyes flicked to Xephos. Carefully, Honeydew moved back from the bed, to give Liam space to come out if he wanted. After another moment of consideration, Liam crawled out from under the bed and got unsteadily to his feet. He kept his eyes down, his lips pressed tight together. There was a bruise forming on his thin arm, like someone had grabbed him much too hard. Honeydew clenched his teeth and levered himself to his feet. The boy was of a height with him, probably taller when he wasn't slouching.

"Right! I've got my car outside, if you'll come along that way," Honeydew said, trying to keep his voice cheerful. He made no move to touch Liam in any way.

Again, Liam's eyes flicked to Xephos. A pair of tears slid down his cheeks. His lip quivered.

"You'll be staying with Mr. Honeydew for a few days," Xephos said. "During which time, I will figure out what to do with you upon your return."

Silently, Liam nodded. Xephos turned to Honeydew.

"Thank you again for this, friend," he said. "Let me know if he proves to be too much trouble."

"Yeah, right," said Honeydew.

Xephos sighed and rubbed his temple.

"Good night, Liam," he said. "I love you. Despite _everything,_ I do love you."

Liam mouthed something, but no words came out. It seemed to be enough for Xephos, who moved off down the corridor.

Through a bit of cajoling and a bit more finagling, Honeydew managed to get Liam out to the car. He let him sit in the front seat, judging him tall enough for it. Liam cried quietly through the whole thing, silent, never once looking at Honeydew for more than a fraction of a second. Honeydew fished some napkins out of the glove compartment and encouraged Liam to wipe the blood off his face, which he did with shaking hands.

The first place Honeydew went was a fast food joint, where he picked up two chocolate milkshakes. He hadn't been able to get Liam to answer whether or not he wanted one, but he was gratified when the boy actually did sip at the straw.

They arrived at Honeydew's little flat just after one-thirty in the morning. Honeydew parked the car and turned to Liam, trying to look very serious and grave without looking imposing. He wasn't sure he succeeded.

"Oy, Liam," he said quietly. "If you don't wanna go back to your dad, you tell me, all right? You tell me, and I'll make sure to find someplace else for you to go. You _tell_ me, yeah?"

Liam stared at him like he was speaking in tongues.

"Dads ain't s'posed to give you bruises," Honeydew said, even more quietly.

Dropping his eyes, Liam muttered something to his milkshake.

"What?" said Honeydew. "Sorry, I've got old man ears."

"I said _they are if you're a freak,"_ Liam said bitterly.

Honeydew's jaw dropped, at he stared at Liam in open horror. The boy had clenched his jaw, like he hadn't meant to let the words slip and was determined not to let any others follow.

"Who the fuck told you _that?"_ Honeydew demanded, then hurriedly corrected himself, "Pardonin' my language."

Liam shrugged. Another pair of tears slid down his cheeks and he wiped them away angrily. He didn't answer.

With a sigh, Honeydew unbuckled his seatbelt and popped the car door open.

"Right," he said. "Let's get you to bed, yeah? I'm sure this'll all look less . . . fuppin' horrifyin' in the light of day."

He took Liam up to his little flat and got him settled with blankets and a pillow on the sagging couch. He would've given him the bed, only he hadn't washed his sheets in several months, plus there were some things under the mattress no seven-year-old ought to be exposed to.

As he tucked himself back into bed, he dearly, _dearly_ hoped Liam would decide to take him up on his offer.

Otherwise he might have to kidnap the poor boy for his own good.


	10. The Lost Hour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally I just wrote this to figure out what happened, but I thought it was worth sharing. Enjoy!

Trell spotted Nano on her way out of the building, moving at a determined stalk to her car. He hurried to catch her up, trying not to sound like he was running up behind her in case she took offense to that. He came in at an oblique angle, and as such didn't catch her until she was halfway to her car.

"Excuse me," he said, having difficulty matching her pace despite the fact that she was shorter than Fox.

"Not interested," she said, keeping her eyes straight ahead.

"You're Dr. Sounds, aren't you?" he asked. "My name's Trellimar Toffolo, I just wanted—"

"Make an appointment," she said. Her fists were clenching, the tension winding up her shoulders. If he pressed his luck, even an inch, he was going to get clocked.

"It's about the B714-LE project," he said.

Nano stopped on a dime, leaving Trell to trip over himself. She stared him right in the eyes and he _saw_ her realize that he was Powered, _saw_ her putting the pieces together.

"The _what?"_ she demanded. Her voice was steely. Her fists were clenched so tight they were trembling. A bead of sweat dripped off one. The asphalt hissed where it landed.

"It's the serum that grows back limbs," Trell said hurriedly. "Strife's stolen some of it."

Nano hesitated. Her eyes narrowed.

"What's that got to do with me?" she asked. "And, for that matter, what's it got to do with _you?"_

"I work for him," said Trell. "Strife, I mean. And the thing about that serum is, he's got no way to make more of it."

"What a fucking shame," said Nano. She started to brush past him and he very hurriedly got out of the way.

"Look," said Trell, growing desperate as he trailed along behind her. Fuck it, if he was going to skip back anyway. . . ."It's not really about the serum. There's something else you need to know."

"Delightful. Hey, honest question, would you mind _fucking off?"_

"It's about the thing that grew out of you," said Trell.

Nano grabbed him by the shirt so fast he almost skipped back right then and there. She yanked him down to her eye-level, nearly doubling him over.

_"_ _What_ _,"_ she growled.

He raised his hands, sweating palms out.

"M-maybe we should . . . talk about this somewhere more—more private?" he said, his voice squeaking. She shook him so hard his teeth rattled.

"Talk," she ordered.

"Okay!" said Trell. He could smell his shirt burning in her fist. "It wasn't dead when it popped off. Strife had it kept. They tested on it. Um. Rather a lot. And then it got loose. In December."

Nano stared at him, steely and frozen. His shirt dissolved out of her hand. He did not straighten up.

"You and me are going to Solutions Tower," she said. _"Right now."_

"Okay," Trell wheezed.

* * *

 

It took forty-five minutes to wade through rush-hour traffic to Solutions Tower, and Trell counted every second, jittering. He was rapidly running out of time to go back on this, and if it all went wrong just a _little_ too late, he'd be utterly shit out of luck.

He made the decision to skip back in fifteen minutes, no matter _what_ was happening. The situation was far too precarious. He could always try again another day.

Nano barged right up to the front desk, elbowing through a long queue. Trell drifted in her wake, apologizing to everyone who fell victim to her. Nano stopped just short of physically assaulting the receptionist.

"I'm here to see Mr. Strife," she said, in a tone of voice that implied that she was _going_ to see Mr. Strife, whether you liked it or not, and if you got in the way you'd be absolutely _flattened._

"He, um, he's not—not available, at the moment," the receptionist stammered. "I-I-I'd have to ask you to make an appointment, ma'am."

Nano placed her hands, palms-down, on the big oak desk. There was a sizzling sound, and streams of white smoke poured out from under her fingers.

"You can give me the fucking keycard," Nano uttered, "or I can bring the fucking _building_ down."

Trell put a hand—very _very_ carefully—on Nano's shoulder.

"I'm a custodian," he hissed through his teeth. "I've got _all_ the keys."

Nano glared at the receptionist for a moment more, then turned on her heel and made for the elevator. Trell hurried after, apologizing once again to everybody in the queue, and to the receptionist. He let Nano into the elevator quickly, before she burned a hole in the doors.

As the elevator ascended, she folded her arms and pinned him to the wall with a glare.

"Details," she said.

"Haven't got any!" Trell said, raising his hands in surrender again. "I'm only a custodian! They didn't tell me much!"

"But they told you it came off of _me?"_

"It was sort of obvious anyway! The resemblance was striking!"

She glared at him for a moment more, then turned her gaze to the elevator doors.

"Fine," she said.

The elevator ride was two minutes long. Trell's internal timer went from green to orange.

He almost had to grab Nano by the collar to keep her from getting shot straight out of the gate. The security guard by the elevator had his gun halfway drawn before she'd taken two steps.

"Sorry!" Trell said. "Sorry, bit of a hurry, promise it's no trouble, you know Dr. Sounds, right?"

"Mr. Strife didn't mention she was on her way," the guard said. Trell could feel Nano vibrating with rage behind him. He wondered if it might be worth it to let her have at the guard, just to blow off some steam. He decided he'd much rather see it loosed on Strife, if it was going to be loosed on anyone.

"No, well, no," said Trell. "Look, it's rather sensitive information, you know, very hush-hush? He probably didn't want anyone knowing she was here."

The guard looked him up and down, scowling.

"Let's have your IDs, then," he said.

Trell fumbled his out, and Nano, to his surprise, managed to shove hers into the guard's hand without undue violence. He did notice that her ID was specially laminated so that it wouldn't fizz in her hands.

"All right," the guard said, after far too long deliberating—they were really _seriously_ running out of time here—and handed their IDs back to them. "But if I hear any commotion—"

"Yes yes, thank you," said Trell. He hurried off down the corridor, because Nano was already going.

She just about kicked in Strife's door. The look on his face was not as shocked as Trell would have liked.

"You've got some _fucking_ explaining to do!" Nano snarled, storming up to his desk and slamming her hands down on it.

"Oh boy," Strife drawled. "My favorite. Hey, you mind taking your hands off the desk? It's mahogany."

Nano took her hands off the desk and used them to grab Strife by the shirt, yanking him forward.

"What the _fuck_ do you think you're playing at?" she hissed, while white smoke curled from Strife's lapels.

"Gee, I dunno," Strife said. One of his hands started to slide down.

"Hands where I can see them!" Trell snapped, before he knew what he was doing.

Strife's eyes slid off of Nano and came to rest on Trell. He gave a disapproving little tilt of the head and pursed his lips.

"Toffee," he said. _"_ _Seriously_ _."_

"Eyes on _me,"_ Nano said, shoving him back into his chair. Strife, dutifully, returned his eyes to her. The corner of his mouth was turned up.

"You got it," he said. "Now, lemme guess what this is about: you're here to sell me the robot?"

"What the _fuck_ did you do with that thing that came off me?" Nano demanded. Her voice was shaking. Strife's shirt was fizzing in her hand.

"Uh, okay, you keep that up, you're gonna owe me a new shirt," Strife said.

"If you don't fucking _talk,_ you're gonna need a new _chest!"_ Nano snarled. "Six _months_ you had that thing down there. Six fucking _months_ you had it _alive,_ and _experimented_ on it, and _hid it from me!"_

"Hey now, to be fair, I made sure I didn't know what they'd done with it 'til _after_ the telepath was dead," said Strife.

Nano hit him. He folded over the arm of his chair, his shirt tearing loose in her hand, half-dissolved. He straightened up slowly, wiping the blood off his lip with a thumb.

"You piece of _shit,"_ Nano hissed. "You absolute fucking _bastard."_

"Businessman, Dr. Sounds, _businessman,"_ said Strife. "And I'll tell you, I got some real profit off that thing before it busted out."

"I thought you _changed!"_ she cried. "I thought you were _sorry!_ All that bullshit about progress and spitting on graves—all that _shit_ you spewed about—about wanting to be _better,_ about wanting to put things _right,_ all of that was just total _shit? All of it?"_

"No, no," said Strife, chuckling, even as tears slipped down Nano's cheeks. "No, that was all serious. Thing about spittin' on graves, sweetheart, is you can't do it if you die first."

Too late, Trell spotted the gleam in Strife's hand, too late he lunged forward. There was a flash and a deafening _bang_ and a red firework. Nano staggered back. She looked down at the flower of blood blooming on her chest.

"Cheers," said Strife, and he shot her in the head. Trell flinched, shutting his eyes, but there was still the retort of the gun, still the spatter of blood and clatter of chips of bone against the back wall. He couldn't focus. He should have already been gone, after the first gunshot, but his ears were ringing and his stomach was sick and his vision was blurred. Dimly, he heard a rhythmic thumping, and then something burning hot touched him under the chin.

"Now Toffee," Strife said, his voice muted through Trell's ringing ears. "What just happened is not a fluke. It's an _example_ of what happens when Dr. Sounds finds out about that little basement project of mine. Now that's gonna happen whether _you're_ in the room or not. Every time, without fail. So Toffee, I'm not gonna remember this next time through, but you—you sure as _hell_ are. You want Dr. Sounds to die, you go ahead and spill the beans, and I'll do exactly what I just did. You go ahead and tell her about the gun under my desk, too, _hell,_ I don't care. 'Cause at the end of the day, Toffee, she's not gonna kill me, no matter _what_ I do. But I'm gonna kill her, Toffee. Every single time. So you think _real damn hard_ about how you want next time to go, hey?"

Trell looked up at him, and met his eyes, and swallowed.

"Fuck you," he said.

Strife grinned. "'Til next time, Toffee," he said.

_BANG_


End file.
